Painting the Arena Red
by E. Laine Sparrow
Summary: This is Peeta's story, retelling the 74th Hunger Games from his point of view, from the time he emerges at the Cornucopia to the time when his experiences finally lead him to cross paths with Katniss at the river. Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins retains creative credit for these characters and their world. I simply explore events that prove Peeta to be as strong as we know he is.
1. Chapter 1

I emerge from the suffocating claustrophobia of the tube and light explodes around me, surrounding me like a fireball, blinding me with its intensity. I snap my eyelids shut, seeing flashes of yellow, pink, and white. I can't help registering each distinct color. They're instantaneously imprinted in my mind, and I know I won't forget them. All my memories and thoughts have colors and shades. But these fade fast, replaced by muted blackness, and I shudder involuntarily. I am terrified.

I don't know where I am, only that I am surrounded by enemies and can't see a single one of them. I knew I might be afraid, but until this moment, I had no idea how much. But what frightens me even more than what awaits me, is the thought of _her_ out there. Desperate. Maybe even terrified, too. I won't let anything happen to her if I can somehow prevent it. Haymitch and I agreed. We made a deal, and I hold onto that. Letting_ that_ color my thoughts, filling me up with a fiery, blazing brightness. It's hot. Because I am desperate, too.

I know he told her to run, to flee as far from the Cornucopia as she could, as fast as she was able. He told her to do what she would not want to do, and so I have to do what every part of me fears to do, and do it anyway. When she runs away from the bloodshed, I must run into it. Straight into it. I couldn't survive in the woods on my own anyway. I know that. I'm a baker, after all. I'd be helpless. Useless. I probably wouldn't last a day out there. But this, this might be useful. And we agreed.

So I have to open my eyes, force myself to adjust, get my bearings, get my wits about me. I'll need them. After all, as Haymitch once pointed out, that is probably the one real card I have to play and, hopefully, not what they will expect.

I remember his exact words, too, because _I _had not expected them. Not at all.

It was the first time I mentioned my intentions, what I was going to do and not do in the arena. I'd been thinking about the conversation for awhile and how I would convince him. I knew I would do it with or without his help. But his help would make it a lot easier.

I was sitting tensely in a too-plush chair in the corner of his room, staring a little wildly at the man who'd ten minutes ago tossed himself onto the couch and proceeded to snore loudly, his awkward limbs never repositioned. It couldn't possibly be comfortable. But then, he probably wasn't aware of anything. Which was a problem.

I got up and strode purposefully to the couch, nudging his shoulder gently. That seemed a good place to start. I could easily drag him off the couch and toss him in the shower, again, but that would make him uncooperative, so I considered it a last-resort tactic.

His snores persisted, so I shook him and yelled, "Haymitch!" directly into his ear.

He swiftly swung a knife around in a wide arc from somewhere beneath his belly and glared at me with dull, crazed eyes. Thankfully, I'd expected this, and jumped backward just in time.

"What the hell, kid?" he bellowed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Why are you still here?"

"I want to talk to you about my strategy," I said stubbornly, crossing my arms over my chest, unwilling to let him settle back into his drunken stupor.

He frowned and scratched his chin, clearly preparing to bury his face back in the pillow. "I told you already. Stay alive. Best I can do."

"It's not the best you can do," I persisted angrily. I'm a calm person. I try not to speak harshly to people, because I know what it feels like, and I never want to make anyone feel the way I have felt my whole life. Worthless. But I didn't have the time or patience to be indulgent with Haymitch, and I sensed that being direct was the only way to get through to him. Plus, he could take it—and deserved it—to be blunt.

He raised an eyebrow at me and scowled. "If you're going to talk to me like that, you'd better get out of here. I might accidentally throw this knife in your general direction."

But I was unmoving, and it irritated him. He rubbed his hollow eyes, like he was trying un-see things he could never un-see. "Look, I can't help you—," he began, his voice low.

"Haymitch, I know I'm going to die," I spat out, matter of fact, trying to keep my voice from wavering. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Though I'd had every intention of being firm and confident, I betrayed myself. Clearing my throat, I pressed on, "I just want to live long enough to make sure _she_ doesn't."

He narrowed his eyes. Suspicious. Of course. He opened his mouth, probably to curse at me, but then he hesitated. I held my breath, waiting for him to kick me out and already prepared to protest. Instead, he ordered, "Get me a drink."

He rolled onto his back and watched me hasten over to the bar where I stood frozen, uncertain which of the many bottles to choose from. I looked to him for guidance. He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and muttered, "Doesn't matter which."

So I'd grabbed the closest one and poured the amber liquid into a glass. I was being quick, wanting to get it to him before he changed his mind about this little chat. When I handed it to him he took a long drink, eyes pinched together. The smell of it burned my nose, and I wondered what it was doing to his throat. Probably, exactly what he wanted it to.

Finally, he pulled the glass away and said harshly, "What's your angle?"

"There's no angle," I snapped, affronted. I stormed back to the chair I had occupied earlier and threw myself into it, calming just as quickly as my atypical fit of temper had arisen. I wanted to be mad at him, but I really couldn't be. He was doing his job. Sort of. And this was the worst situation to be in. It was definitely not the way I had wanted to reveal the information I harbored—or who I'd wanted to share it with. I buried my head in my hands and whispered, "I love her."

"You've got to be kidding me," he snorted loudly, unbelieving. "_The girl_? The ice princess?" He chortled, and I peaked between my trembling fingers to see him throwing back another gulp of liquor.

I steeled myself, frowning. He was going to think this made me weak. But it didn't. It made me stronger. Determined. And I needed him to understand that—and maybe even respect me for it. Or at the very least, help me because of it.

"No, I'm not kidding" I said firmly, clutching my knees with white-knuckled hands. "Even if we were the last two left, I wouldn't lift a hand to hurt her. I've loved her for almost as long as I can remember. Whether she knows it or not, I've been trying to show her for years. I'm not going to stop now. So I want you to help me help her. I'll do anything, and I'll do it anyway. But it would go a whole lot better with your direction and input."

"Why?" he asked incredulously, mouth agape, brow wrinkled in confusion. But then his face smoothed as I opened mine to reply, and he interrupted. "Scratch that. I don't need the nitty, gritty details. What matters is whether or not you can sell it."

"Sell it? It's not a game! It's my _life_!" I shouted in frustration, running a hand over my perfectly-sleek hair.

"Of course it is. Your_ life_ is a game now. Get used to it," Haymitch spat back at me, eyes boring holes into mine. He brought the drink back to his lips and then slammed it down on his knee. The liquid sloshed onto his pants, but he didn't bat an eye. "If you haven't realized that yet, you're already behind, and this is going to be a lot harder."

"It's not a game to me, Haymitch," I pleaded earnestly, trying to make him understand. I leaned forward, digging my elbows into my knees painfully. "It's about more than my life. Who cares about mine?" I scoffed sadly. "No one, I imagine. But I care about _hers_. More than anything," I added with finality, even as he diverted his eyes to look longingly at his almost-empty glass.

Then he looked at me strangely, head cocked to the side. He squinted his eyes like he was measuring me, like he was seeing me clearly for the first time. Then he laughed again.

"Thank God you've got a good mouth on you," he said wryly, hopping up with surprising agility to replenish his glass.

"What?" I asked, bewildered, sitting back in the chair.

"Did you get smacked on the head in training today?" He shot back sarcastically, crossing the room to stand in front of me. He smacked me himself, for good measure. "Well get a hold of yourself," he commanded. "You're good with words. Quick-witted. Charismatic. _Believable_. We can use that."

"So you'll do it? You'll help me?" I'd asked excitedly, gratefully, hopping to my feet.

"Sure, kid," he'd replied languidly, returning to the couch and sinking down into it.

"No. This is serious," I'd insisted, following him, willing him to get that I wasn't just some pathetic, infatuated boy. "You've got to promise me," I implored sternly. I even got down on my knees in front of him. Practically begging. It would have been humiliating if I hadn't been so desperate that I didn't care one bit.

"I promise," he said uncomfortably, but with an edge in his voice I hadn't heard before. His eyes flashed with all the latent pride and ingenuity of a victor, simmering beneath the surface though long muted by alcohol and terrible memories. He sat up a little straighter and leaned toward me, his voice calculating and clinical. "You're strong, but that won't help you, or her, if they perceive you as a threat and try to take you out right away. Before you have a chance to make your case. So you can't initiate a confrontation."

"But I _am_ strong!" I protested indignantly, unsure where he was going with this.

"_I _know that. And the judges can know that. But it won't do you much good when a Career is holding you at arm's length with a sword. Hell, if they're good with knives or spears or axes—or even tridents, for God's sake—you won't see them coming!" The words tumble out, as though he's had this on the tip of his tongue all along, as though it's all he sees, but has never had the desire—or reason—to share it.

His eyes turned dark and serious, like mine. "You won't have _time_ to use your strength," he explained with a frown. "So you've got to use your next best asset, that silver-tongued mouth of yours, to buy you some time. Stall."

He saw the confusion and surprise in my face. I didn't see how that was much of a strategy at all. He took a quick drink, building himself up to go on.

"Say whatever you've got to say to get her a head start. That's what will help her the most, in the beginning. Assuming," he paused, eyebrows raised, "you're still stupid enough to be committed to this game plan of yours."

"Of course," I answered, unwavering. I sat back against my heels, watching him. Watching his mind work. It was hard to believe this was the same barely-functional Haymitch who practically dragged himself from Capital obligation to obligation with open disdain—and stops at bars and soft surfaces in between.

"Then keep them from taking off after her for as long as you can. They'll want to, given her score," he said knowingly. "So you've got to talk them down. And," he added, with an edge of cunning, "if you get the chance, misdirect a bit, too."

"Misdirect?" I asked, intrigued, standing to stretch my cramped legs before sitting myself on the couch beside him. "Yah, I could do that. I'll do anything," I agreed eagerly, smoothing my fitted pants though they didn't need it. They were perfect, just like my hair.

"Sheesh, kid," he said, shaking his head before quickly finishing off the second drink. "That's evident."

I started to wonder why he still didn't call me by name, if he could help it. Maybe it was easier that way. Less investment. Less loss to deal with afterward. I shrugged to myself. Whatever motivated him to get the job done—and stick to the deal.

Then he interrupted my musings, a light flashing across his face. "Oh, and if you get the chance to use that good mouth of yours for anything _else_, take every opportunity," he instructed thoughtfully. "I'm sure they'd _love _that."

"What?!" I'd asked, startled, flustered by his implication, heat rising in my cheeks. I sat back and shifted nervously, my pants slick against the cushions.

"Ok, _this_," he said, gesturing to me with his empty glass. "You've got to think about how to play it now so you don't get anxious just because she's involved. You can't be all eloquent with me and turn to mush with her around." He huffed impatiently and scratched himself unabashedly with his free hand. "Use it—this genuine, love-her-to-my-grave nonsense, but don't get distracted by her. Stick to the end game, or you'll do or say something stupid," he'd smirked, walking unsteadily back to the bar.

"You've got to stay focused, or this isn't going to work. I mean," he'd continued, as if to himself, while lovingly caressing the different bottles. Choosing. "We should all pretty much admit now that this whole thing is a long shot, at best. And if I were you, I'd run for the hills, assuming there are some. But keep it together," he'd finished, turning to look at me, holding my gaze with his glare. "Can you do that?"

"Yes. I'll do anything," I'd repeated, clutching my knees again.

"You'll have to lie. And probably kill," he'd said harshly, eyes narrowed, testing me. "Can you do _that_?"

The resolve in my eyes wavered, and he smirked knowingly, about to turn back to the bar, confident in what he'd assumed all along. When it came down to it, I'd be weak. Like the others. Best to drink it away and give up. Forget the deal.

"Yes," I yelled out, desperate, grabbing his attention. "I know they'd kill me otherwise. And her. And I can't let that happen. If there's _anything_ at all that I can do, I'll do it," I said again, my voice trailing off like a mockingjay echoing a melancholy refrain. "Her life is all that matters to me," I insisted hotly, meaning it, deep down, where the truth of it burned inside me.

"You have to do whatever I tell you to do," Haymitch ordered, bemused mouth twitching as he sauntered back to the couch and flopped into its corner.

"Whatever you say," I agreed, leaning back into the opposite corner, watching the glimmer of intensity fade and drain from his face, appeased by _my_ promise and relaxed by another liquor-induced buzz.

He shook his head again and downed a third of the glass. When he came up for air he licked his lips and observed, "Boy, I think you might be more crazy than me."

"Maybe I am," I conceded wearily, freeing a few buttons on the shirt that suddenly felt so constricting. "But I don't care," I admitted honestly. "Part of me will hate myself for it, but I couldn't live with myself if something happens to her. That would be worse than any other kind of pain."

Haymitch nodded and casually raised his glass to me. "Well, I can guarantee you some of that. One way or the other. Cheers!"

And that was the night we decided I should make my confession to Caesar Flickerman—and that Katniss and I would train separately. There was no turning back then. The plan was set in motion. I'd gotten everyone's attention. Especially hers. I'd used my real feelings to manipulate the emotions of everyone in the Capitol.

Now I just have to initiate the second half of the plan and go into the Cornucopia, into the inevitable bloodbath, and use that same skill with words to convince the Careers I'm actually a cunning liar and, therefore, a useful ally. I'll be lying, that's for sure. Just not in the way I want them to think.

I take a deep breath. I probably _am_ crazy. But I force my eyes open. I force them to focus, now.


	2. Chapter 2

I am momentarily blinded again as the too-bright sun fills my eyes, but I make myself keep them open, adjusting. My eyes are immediately drawn to a giant golden horn right in front of me. The Cornucopia. Even if it weren't in the center of what appears to be a circular configuration, I couldn't look away. It reflects the sun in a way I've never seen before. It's surreal.

Equally unbelievable is the bounty spilling from it's mouth. I see glints of silver—weapons and canisters. Then my eyes catch a hint of shiny red—apples. And much more. Food. Clothes. Sheets of plastic. Blankets. Unidentified containers holding, I'm sure, items invaluable for survival.

My breath leaves my body in a rush, and then I remember we have only 60 interminable seconds to survey the field before the gong sounds—and I have no idea how many of them I wasted with my eyes shut. Panic fills me as I realize how I've already put myself at a disadvantage, and I struggle to settle my body and emotions and observe carefully, and quickly.

My eyes flit over my right shoulder, revealing a startlingly blue expanse behind me. A lake. I shudder. I can't swim, so I will find no escape in that direction. Of course, I'm not looking to escape, so it's a pointless observation. Useful only if I survive the next few terrifying minutes. Then, perhaps, it will be a welcome water source.

Further to my right, the ground drops off sharply behind the faceless Tributes in the distance. I don't know what lies beyond, but I hope not to find out.

The ground at my feet is hard, brown, and flat, very unlike District 12, where it seems like everything is black—the dirt, the coal, the dust. At least, as far as I know. I've never ventured to the woods, to Katniss' refuge, to the places she must go to hunt. I have no idea what it's like out there. I can only imagine.

I shoot a glance to my left, taking in tall, green pines, and my imagination takes on tangible form before me. _Perfect_, I breathe. It will be perfect for Katniss. Calm overtakes me, and I can't suppress a small smile, silently thanking the gamemakers and relishing in her steadily increasing chances. Then my eyes drop from the tree tops, and I see her.

Shock runs through me as I take in her nimble stance, poised on the ready balls of her feet, sharp eyes darting around swiftly. I see them narrow and watch her face harden, set with determination. Horror fills me as I see the change, like she has locked onto her prey. I follow her sightline and find what has caught her attention—a bow. She wants it. She wants it bad enough to ignore Haymitch. _Oh no. No. No, Katniss_.

I will her to look at me, so I can somehow tell her this will ruin the plan. This will ruin _everything_. Why would she go against Haymitch's advice? He's not the best mentor, not by a long shot, but he's been here. He deserves a little credit for that. Besides, there's no one else. It's Haymitch's counsel or our own, and I can clearly see which she's tempted to take.

_Why is she so stubborn!?_ I fume. She doesn't even look nervous. Just confident. Like she knows she can get it and has already visualized it, as though it's already firmly in her grip. This is why she can win.

_We are so different_, I think sadly.

Then I remember the last words Haymitch said to me before he turned me over to Portia this morning. He looked me dead in the eye and said firmly, "You're a brave kid. Don't let anything that happens in there make you think any different."

"No," I protested, appreciating the sentiment but not believing the words. "Katniss is the brave one. She doesn't seem to be afraid of anything."

"She's a survivor. She's resourceful. She's not gonna give up, I'll give you that," Haymitch said, shaking his head before taking a swig from a flask that appeared out of nowhere. "But it's not the same kind of bravery," he'd insisted, eyes dark and steely before he turned quickly away.

He didn't repeat, "Stay alive," as he probably did for Katniss. There wouldn't have been a point. But I remember what he _did_ say, and it gives me strength, in spite of my doubts. I wonder if he really is that clever, knowing exactly what I needed to hear. Yes, I think he is, though he tries his hardest to drown it along with every other part of himself.

I take another deep breath and continue to stare at Katniss, knowing the gong will sound any second. Any second. _Look at me. Look at me! _I shout in my head.

And she does.

I don't waste my chance. I shake my head. She flinches, and I see confusion flash across her face. Her body tenses and when the loud gong we have all anticipated rings throughout the arena, she hesitates. Adrenaline courses through me, and I launch myself from the land mine beneath my feet, propelling myself toward the expansive opening and the cache of weapons just within the mouth.

Even as I run, legs churning, muscles burning, I can't help glancing to my left to make sure Katniss has fled. I grit my teeth and clench my fists when I see that she too, after a few seconds delay, runs toward the field and not into the shelter of the woods. I know it won't do me any good to run to her, shake some sense into her, though I desperately want to. That would waste precious time for both of us and undermine any attempt I will make to join the careers. I've got to get a weapon and, perhaps, draw some attention, and tributes, away from her.

I'm within ten yards of the opening when I look over my shoulder and find that she's paused at a bright orange backpack. I hold my breath and hope she'll be satisfied with that. But my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach when the boy from District 9 grabs it and tries to wrench it from her grasp. I hope with all that's in me that the boy hasn't had time to get a weapon, that he will just let go. I know better than to hope _she_ will.

I want to wait and see what happens, but I don't have that luxury. Another tribute, the boy from 7, I think, is sprinting towards me, awkwardly brandishing a sword that's clearly too heavy for him. I'm thankful he seems to handle it poorly and hope that will be enough to give me an advantage. My knee twists painfully as I plant my foot and throw the momentum of my body in the opposite direction, but I ignore it. I rush him, which he doesn't expect, and duck under his clumsy swing of the weapon, driving my broad shoulder deep into his mid-section.

The air leaves his body, and I shove him away from me, hard. He lands on his back and smacks his head on the ground, where he stays, trying to catch his breath. He's about to roll onto his side. I see the shoulders beginning to twist, when a sword plunges into his chest and pins him to the ground. His mouth opens like he's choking, gasping, but there's no air, no life.

A foot slams down onto the boy's chest and anchors the body so the sword can be quickly and smoothly extracted. The blade drips with deep, red blood, and I think I might vomit. Especially when I see who holds it. It's Cato. The tribute from District 2. One of the Careers.

I have no weapon and can't get to one. Cato stands between me and the mouth of the Cornucopia. I try to remember what Haymitch told me. To win their trust, to make them believe me, all without coming off as a threat. Right now, that seems like an impossible task.

He grins menacingly and takes a step toward me, blood-lust and victory bright in his eyes, and I know I can't wait any longer to make my case. "Wait," I yell, extending one hand, "I want to be allies!"

Cato sneers at me and moves within striking distance, when I see movement behind him. "Duck!" I shout.

He goes down on one knee and brings the sword around his body, thrusting it behind him, where it imbeds in the stomach of the girl from District 10. She spits as her mouth fills with blood, and I feel the spray hit my face. I flinch. I'm that close.

The girl drops the long dagger she was holding as her grip loosens. It falls to the ground, and Cato pulls his sword from a second victim.

I turn my head, wiping my hand across my face, not wanting to register the empty eyes. I want to see Katniss. _Where is Katniss_?

My eyes scan the field where I saw her barely minutes ago. The boy from District 9 is sprawled on the ground, dark blood from a wound on his back staining his clothes. I swallow. The backpack is gone. And so is she.

I whip my head back to face Cato and see he's shoved the dagger into his belt. He glares at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes. I grasp at his hesitation and yell out, "I'll help you get her, the other tribute from my District. I know how!"

He doesn't agree, but he doesn't kill me either. Instead, he turns and brings the sword down with a quick slash, taking out a boy who'd sneaked in behind him in an attempt to reach the weapon's cache. He moves on, for now, so I rush to the boy from District 7, grabbing the sword from his limp hand.

I decide to stay close to Cato. Cautiously close. He's the only Career who knows about my offer. He might fully intend to finish me off as soon as he's made quick work of the others and the Careers have eliminated all of the competition brave enough—stupid enough—to hang around. Or—he _might_ hear me out. Might.

I follow in his wake, holding the sword at the ready. It feels foreign in my baker's hands. _I'm a baker_. A _baker_! And here I am stuck in a senseless fight to the death, all for the purpose of inspiring fear in some and providing entertainment for others. It's sickening, and I have no choice. I'll kill. If I have to. And I know I'll have to, eventually. But I decide, right now, I'll only engage the other tributes defensively, if I can help it.

With this in mind, I fight alongside Cato, blocking blows as best I can and directing the aggressors, the weaker Tributes, into his path. I don't want to deal the death blows. It's a clumsy distinction, I know, but I hang onto it, not willing to cross the fragile line between ruthless killer and desperate defender. But the lines are all blurred here. All blurred. And all red.

Then, finally, there is silence, the calm in the middle of the storm. Cato walks around the corner of the Cornucopia, and I follow warily behind him, abruptly stopping short when Glimmer comes around the side with bow and arrow raised—the bow that should have been for Katniss—aimed right at me. I pull my body flush with the cold, golden metal right as she lets the arrow fly. It sings at it whizzes by me. _She is no Katniss_.

She grunts and frowns, already pulling another from her sheath, when I call out, "No. Wait! I want to be allies! We're allies!" I protest like it's already true, as if my confidence and insistence will make it so.

Her eyes narrow, and she looks to Cato, who merely shrugs. Clove, the other tribute from Cato's District, walks up behind Glimmer, laughing harshly. "Why would we want, let alone _need_, you as an ally?"

Cato turns and watches me, joined now by Marvel and the girl from District 4, who I don't know.

"Where's—?" Marvels starts to ask.

District 4 shakes her head and scowls, "I made the girl pay for it."

Marvel nods, and they all turn to watch _me_, now.

Adrenaline continues to flow powerfully through me, but some of the shock begins to subside. My knee throbs. My face aches from where one of the Tributes caught me with an elbow. My arms stings, and I realize blood drips from where another slashed me. I must look pathetic to them. But I'm not dead. My survival counts for something. Now my words must count for more. I have to persuade them.

I quickly weigh my options. I don't want them to think I'm afraid. But I also don't want them to feel I'm a threat, either. I instinctively know if I do anything that seems remotely aggressive, they'll respond in kind. And if it comes to a fight, I'll most definitely lose. I'm going to die in this arena. I'm sure of that. But I can't die here. Not yet. I need to survive a little while longer, to help Katniss. If I can.

So I slowly lay down my sword.

Haymitch agreed my best chance was to delay and misdirect. To accomplish that, I have to be where they are. They have to trust me. Or at least, be willing to use me. So how can I make them need me? What can I say? They don't think they need my help. They're Careers! So I lay it all on the line. Because whether they take me on or not, I still have to stall.

"You could take me out right now," I admit, my voice low, my stance non-threatening. "Or," I add smoothly, my voice audibly changing with suggestiveness, "you could use me to find Katniss Everdeen."

I say it this way, because it's true, but also because, offering my_ help _isn't what they want to hear. They're confident and arrogant, and I play to that. I need them to think I understand and accept the balance of power. And I do. It hurts, but I do.

Marvel strokes his chin and cocks his head, flicking his eyes toward Cato. Bodies are strewn all around, but they speak casually, like it's nothing. "She _did_ get the highest score," he concedes.

"So!" Clove scoffs, playing with one of the daggers she's collected. "She's out-numbered. We can take her easily. Let's just get rid of him."

"It _won't_ be that easy," I say, my tone knowing and sure. I force myself to lean against the Cornucopia, to project an air of equal casualness.

"Why not?" Cato asks finally, skeptically, leaning on his sword. His slick, crimson sword.

"You can't just run into the woods after her, unprepared," I explain, crossing my arms over my chest, though my arm burns with each movement. "_She_ knows what she's doing out there. Do you?" I ask nonchalantly, planting the seed of doubt in their minds.

They exchange uncertain looks, so I continue. "She'll have water and food by now and is probably holed up in some place you'll never find unless you know her. Like _I _do. Those woods out there? They're like the woods in District 12, where she hunted every available minute of the day. She could outlast us all just by staying out of sight," I finish, my heart thumping so loudly in my chest I'm sure they can hear it.

"So you'll have to be clever and prepared," I suggest, nodding toward all the unopened supplies. "Going out there without food or water would be stupid. You _don't _need me. But, you want my advice on how to take her down? That's the place to start. Fortify yourselves. Take stock of the supplies. And hope she's not as resourceful and self-sufficient as I know she is," I conclude, holding my breath now, knowing that's all I've got.

"What about the star-crossed-lovers routine?" Glimmer asks skeptically, fingering her arrow.

I shrug. "Just an act," I say flatly, kicking at the hard, brown dirt. "My mentor thought it might get me some sponsors. But I doubt it. No one cares about District 12, so he was desperate. Though, if anything _does_ come of it," I add lightly, like it's an afterthought, "you're all welcome to a share."

"Sure seemed genuine to me," Marvel says accusingly, crossing his thick arms over his chest.

"So I'm a good actor," I acknowledge with another shrug.

"How do we know you're not acting now?" asks Cato quietly, menacingly. He picks up his sword and swings it in a slow arc next to him.

"I guess you don't," I agree bluntly, forcing myself to hold his direct gaze. "But I could have let that girl kill you. And I didn't," I point out, tilting my head to the side. "I figured I'd be better off teaming up with you guys than going out there on my own," I say, letting my eyes drift to the woods beyond.

Cato runs his eyes over my face. Finally, he nods. "Alright, Lover Boy. You're with us. For now."

I exhale slowly, releasing some of the tension, some of the fear, willing myself to show none.

I don't wait for them to debate the matter further or for anyone to dispute Cato's decision. I kneel at the nearest bin and start prying it open without invitation. "Plastic bottles and iodine!" I observe happily, holding one up for their inspection. "I'll take these down to the lake and fill them up."

I stand up, holding the large bin easily in my arms, when I freeze as Glimmer raises the bow and arrow again, aiming just above and to the right of my shoulder. I turn quickly and see a face peering from the dark depths of the Cornucopia before it disappears. I only caught a glimpse, but I think I recognized it. The boy from District 3.

"Don't shoot!" a high-pitched voice calls out.

The Careers answer with a chorus of raucous laughter.

I rack my brain for what to say or do. The immediate fighting is over, and I don't want to watch them kill the boy in cold blood. But I can't reasonably stop them without arousing suspicion. Then I remember about District 3—"Hey, you work with explosives in your district, don't you?" I yell into the large metal mouth. My voice echoes.

"Yah," he replies timidly. "I know all about them."

I look turn back to look at Cato and shrug. "Could come in handy," I observe.

"Seriously?" Clove asks, annoyed, clearly itching to launch her dagger into the Cornucopia if Glimmer doesn't make a move soon. "This little party seems too big to me already."

"Come in handy how?" Cato asks curiously, moving toward me, and the Cornucopia, still swinging his sword.

"You want to leave all these supplies unprotected while we're off searching the woods?" I ask innocently, planting another seed.

He considers me, then yells, "Get out here 3, or I'll come in after you."

The boy slowly comes into the light. Cato nods toward the bin I'm holding and gruffly orders, "Take these bottles, here, and fill them up in the lake. And be quick about it. If I have to come looking for you, you won't have the chance to show us what you can do."

District 3 nods, grabs the bin from my arms, and shuffles toward to the lake, struggling under the burden of it's size. I raise my eyebrows at Cato, but he doesn't look at me.

"Take a quick inventory. Everyone grab some food, bandages, whatever you need," he says calmly, ripping into another container before lifting his eyes to mine and adding with a cold smile, "Then we're heading out."


	3. Chapter 3

By the time District 3 returns, dragging the bin laden with heavy water bottles, sweat dripping from his temples, I have uncovered a large stash of crates filled with tins of food. After hastily shoving a handful of the tins into the pockets lining the outside and inside of my jacket, for later, I move on to a container of medical supplies while the Careers swarm the food I've abandoned, tearing into various tins, already hungry from their morning's exertion. They take their time with it, gorging themselves, thinking, arrogantly, that they have no reason not to. There appears to be plenty and, caught up in the heady energy of feasting, they're now in no immediate hurry.

But I grimace. I have no appetite. The bloodbath bodies have still not been recovered—won't be until we leave the area. And I'm conflicted over this. It seems like everywhere I look I see twisted limbs and hair—some curly, some straight and sleek, some, I choke, somehow still as perfectly coiffed as it was when the stylists arranged it—and the dark stains on the ground beneath them. I swallow with difficulty. We should leave so they can be cleared away, retaining the smallest shred of dignity in death, so their families don't have to stare at the fallen while we, along with the cameras, linger callously.

But I can't suggest it. As much as I hate it, the strategy takes precedence. Life before death. So we stay, and every precious second we stay, I'm thankful. _For Katniss_.

I pull a packaged compress from the bin and rip it open in frustration, focusing intently on my injured arm. I apply it firmly and wince from the pressure. Then with gritted teeth I awkwardly wrap the arm securely in a gauzy bandage. Red blood seeps through to the surface, and I look away as soon as the job's done. I also find a roll of strangely-sticky material and decide to try wrapping it around my knee for support. When I'm finished, I test it out, pacing back and forth. I'm still sporting a noticeable limp, but it's more manageable.

Many of the Careers, relaxed and satiated, disperse to clean their weapons or take target practice. They aren't very interested in continuing to sort through supplies, so I'm the only one still working—something they're not used to. They chatter and joke among themselves. But not with me. I am, for now, a tolerated ally, but I'm not _one of them_. And I don't want to be.

Marvel even falls into a light sleep, sprawled amongst the unmoving bodies, head supported by a roll of blankets. I see his chest rising and falling, rising and falling, and I frown, turning back to my work. I have to keep my hands busy. They don't know how to be idle, and I need the distraction.

It's well into the afternoon when Cato shoves another handful of dry biscuits in his mouth and stands with a mildly-satisfied expression on his face as he kicks Marvel in the side. "Grab a water bottle," he says to no one in particular. Everyone complies. "You too, Lover Boy," he sneers, shoving one through a loop in his belt.

Like Haymitch, he doesn't use my name, though I'm pretty sure he knows it. Katniss and I attracted a lot of unexpected attention with the help of our escort, Effie, and our stylists, Cinna and Portia. And the Careers especially didn't seem too happy about it. I don't blame them. They want all the sponsors for themselves. That's how the games are _supposed_ to go, how they've gone for years now. But Cato won't acknowledge that I'm a threat in that or any other way. He calls me Lover Boy to put me in my place. And I let him.

I pick up a bottle and put it through the same loop in my own belt. District 3 reaches for one and moves to do the same, but Cato waves him aside.

"You'll stay here," he smirks, bringing a second bottle to his lips before pausing. "You took care of the iodine?" he asks, face fearsome.

District 3 nods vigorously, and Marvel and Glimmer titter in amusement as they reclaim their spots on the ground, lounging comfortably. Clove returns to throwing knives at targets she's marked in the dirt. And District 4 goes back to polishing off a tin of what appears to be a dried meat.

Cato tosses the now-empty bottle at District 3s feet and says with a shrug, "You can go through the rest of the supplies while we're out on our first—hunting expedition." He smiles viciously and brandishes his sword, like this will be the highlight of his day. I don't doubt it.

"What about flashlights?" Glimmer asks petulantly, brow furrowed and hands on her hips. "I don't want to be out there—in the dark."

Cato nods, and I motion toward a container I remember holding an assortment of light-emitting objects. I begrudgingly join the Careers hovering over it, quickly grab a flashlight, and tuck it into another belt loop. I exhale deeply, worried. They plan to be out into the night, so this won't be the cursory foray I'd hoped it would be. My heart sinks heavily. This might require _a lot _of misdirection, and I don't know if I'm up to the task.

District 4 admires a torch she's found, and Clove begins to methodically collect her knives, depositing them into niches in her belt and jacket that seem specifically designed for this purpose. I'm certain they were. Cato then walks purposefully toward the tree-line, and the others follow, weapons in hand. I trail slowly behind, clutching my sword.

District 3 remains standing in the middle of the mess of opened containers, uncertain. Cato flashes him a look over his shoulder and growls, "You've got to at least come into the tree-line with us, or they won't take the bodies." He shakes his head in annoyance and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead before staring into the bright orange sun on its downward descent. "Don't want to let them bake any longer," he smirks to Clove, nudging her in the arm.

The boy jogs awkwardly toward the tree-line but chooses to stand a safe distance away from the group. Cato and the other Careers turn and head into the woods without a backward glance. But I hesitate, letting my gaze fall on District 3. I wonder if he will take the chance to run, to clear out as soon as we're out of sight. I search his face and see the anxious trepidation there. No, he won't run. Much as he'd like to. He wouldn't make it on his own. He's far better off attempting to be useful to the Careers and having unrestricted access to the supplies. But like me—he doesn't know how long their good will, will last.

I exhale wearily and turn to leave him behind, looking over my shoulder only when I hear the whir of hovercrafts in the distance. They converge like vultures on the bodies strewn across the clearing, clutching them in greedy, metal claws. As each body, limp limbs hanging through the gaps in the cages, is drawn into the belly of the hovercraft, the cannon, the Hunger Games' confirming death knoll, finally sounds.

There are 11.

I force myself to plunge into the woods after the Careers. I have to jog to catch up, running_ from_ as much as I am running to. When they hear me approach, Clove glances at me and, clearly enjoying herself, gestures toward the front of the pack with one of her knives. "Well, you lead the way," she says with a sly grin.

I nod and wordlessly take up the lead with a moderate jog. The ground is mostly flat and, though there is no path to follow, the terrain is relatively easy to navigate. The pine trees are sparsely distributed over the landscape, and I weave in and out of the trunks and thin undergrowth without trouble. I don't like having them at my back, never knowing from one moment to the next when one of them might decide in a fit of fickle rage—or amusement—that I've outlived my usefulness. But I don't have a choice.

"So," Marvel asks casually, coming alongside my shoulders and into my peripheral vision, "where is she?"

"It's not that simple," I scoff, keeping my eyes before me while my arms pump in time with the rhythm of my legs. "I can't lead you straight to her. I can only tell you how we're _likely _to find her," I explain casually, continuing to breathe evenly though my stomach clenches into a tight knot.

"That's not what you promised us," Marvel says pointedly, grabbing my arm roughly.

I shake him off and keep running. I've got to stay calm. I've got to think clearly. I've got to give them reasonable, believable answers that still keep her safe. I laugh and spit out, "Yes it is. I said I _know_ her. But I've never been here before. Same as you. I can't possibly know _where _she's camped out, only what clues we're looking for." I shake my head like this is obvious and keep trudging forward, not breaking my stride.

Cato's low voice sounds behind me. Challenging me. "So what _are_ we looking for?" he asks.

I think about how I want to reply. The time for stalling is past. Now my goal is to misdirect. I know she can climb trees, that that's probably what she's done. But _they_ don't. _She _doesn't even know that I know.

I found out about it one morning, back in District 12. It was about a year ago, but feels like more. I was daydreaming about her, again, and I put the bread in the oven late. A woman from the Seam had been scraping money together for months to purchase a special order for her family. Needless to say, my mother did not take it well when she had to tell the woman it wasn't ready. She sent the woman home with promises of a lower payment and a free delivery. By me, of course, after she knocked me around a bit for being lazy and useless. Like always.

Once I was allowed, I loved being in the bakery. Most days. Working with my father. The warmth. The tangy smell of yeast heavy in the air. But then, there were other days, like that one, where I was glad to leave. I walked toward the Seam, not minding the chill or the way people stared now and then as I passed. _Who knows_, I had thought,_ I might even see her_.

And I did. As I passed the Hob, there she was, accepting a ribbing from Gale Hawthorne with a reluctant but good-natured smile. "Never seen you scale a tree like that before, Catnip," he'd said, nudging her in the shoulder playfully.

"Wasn't that hard, really," she had mumbled, a bit embarrassed, not meeting his eyes.

"Nah," he'd insisted, affectionate eyes on her downcast face. "You're more nimble than the squirrels you kill. No wonder you're the best hunter in the District."

She had smiled again, proudly, in spite of herself. I'd actually scowled. It's a painful memory, but I didn't forget it. And I'm glad for that now.

I figure if there's one place she'll feel comfortable hiding, one place no one would think to look, it will be up there. So even though it takes every ounce of my self-control, even though I ache to desperately search the dark trees with my eyes for just a glimpse of her, I never look up. I don't want to risk them catching on, to guess I might be looking at—for—something in particular. So I keep my eyes lowered and forward and hope that I know her as well as I think I do. Better than she'd ever suspect.

I clear my throat. "She won't be this close to the Cornucopia. She'd want to get away, so I'm guessing we've got a couple hours to go, at least, if you want to find her tonight," I say, preparing them for a long and circuitous—and hopefully unfruitful—haul.

"After that," I muse thoughtfully, ducking under a low-hanging branch, "she'll need to find water. So if anyone sees signs of a water source, we should head that way. Also," I continue knowingly, ignoring Marvel's scowls, "she'll want to find cover. So we need to look for out-croppings, overhangs, any significant collection of underbrush that would shelter her."

"This is ridiculous," the girl from District 4 mutters behind me. "_We_ could've figured this out."

I hurry to assuage their grumblings and suspicions, calling over my shoulder, "And signs of her hunting. Like, traps, you know? I'll recognize them," I say confidently, turning my eyes back to the woods before the fear in them can betray me.

Eventually our surroundings begin to change. The woods thicken somewhat, and the trees look different, but I can't pinpoint how. Katniss would probably know. I also begin to feel the force of gravity behind me, urging me onward through the woods as the ground falls beneath my feet in a downward slope. It's good we have the extra momentum on our side, because our pace has slowed considerably. The Careers, for all their skills and strengths, are not conditioned for this kind of lengthy trek. And frankly, neither am I.

I point out signs as I go, to keep them motivated. Every broken branch, every overturned stone, every unusual imprint in the earth. I'm not used to searching so carefully for these things, but I train myself to do it, because I need _something _to show them. I know it wasn't Katniss—if it was a person at all and I'm not seeing signs where there are none—because she would never be so careless. But that's all for the better.

Occasionally one of the Careers pries open another tin and downs it's contents before tossing the empty can to the arena floor. I would never be so bold as to leave a trail marking my presence behind. But then, we are the hunters, not the hunted. _We_ are the ones to fear.

Twilight falls over the woods like a blue-gray blanket as we make our way farther into its depths. We continue on doggedly, ever slower. I can tell they'll need to take a break soon. They're getting tired—and irritable. We haven't come across a single Tribute yet, let alone the one I've promised to deliver into their hands.

The black of night finally overtakes us about an hour later, and I pull my flashlight from my belt. The others follow my lead as I pick my way over the sloping terrain, even more slowly, deliberately. A bone-penetrating chill begins to fill the air around us, and I can see my breath in a white fog before me. I shiver, from more than just the cold. I know I won't be able to see any more signs now—real or otherwise—in darkness like this. I'm not a tracker.

I'm about to reluctantly admit this to the Careers when Glimmer pipes up in a whiny voice, "Can't we stop for awhile? I'm exhausted. And it's getting cold!"

"If we start a fire, people will know where we are," I reply, matter of fact, pressing onward into the black.

"Who cares if they find us! We're not afraid of any of them," Marvel laughs behind me.

"I could pick them off if they do," Clove sneers behind me. I look over my shoulder and see the glint of a knife in my beam of light. Itching. Itching.

Then our debate is interrupted by the anthem. It blares loudly through the arena, and we all stop expectantly, staring into the sky in anticipation. The Capitol anthem always plays before the death toll, and the Careers are eager to see their triumphs displayed in the night sky. As if on cue, the seal of the Capitol appears. It's supposed to be regal and majestic. Awe-inspiring. The Capitol crowds will be loving this, waiting on the edge of their seats.

I always hated this part, though, and I grit my teeth as the ethereal face of each dead Tribute is suspended above, along with their district number. The fallen are memorialized in the night, and the count is taken, beginning with the first district to lose a Tribute. But I don't need to see this. I was there. I know what's coming. And I hate it more this time than any other. Because this time, with every face that flashes across my field of vision, I am reminded of the last time I saw each one. Standing next to me in the circle. Or attacking me with an ax or sword. Or being slain before me, eyes void, body red with blood.

I look at the ground, unable to give each the viewing they deserve. But the Careers are cheering and slapping each other on the back. This seems to have softened their annoyance and put them in a celebratory mood.

Cato pulls a small box from his jacket, holds it up, and says, eyes gleaming, "Matches." He looks around and jeers, "Yah, why not? Let's take a break. We've earned it."

I swallow, sickened by what they think they've _earned_. Sickened by the part I've played in it. I turn away in disgust and am thankful when Cato tosses the box of matches to Clove. I know if I was forced to look him in the eye, I couldn't hide it. Plus, the only fire I've ever tended is the one in the bottom of an oven.

In short order, they're all sitting around a burning pile of sticks encircled with a ring of stones, and I'm on the fringe. My back is exposed to the cold, but I don't care. I don't want to be any closer. It's not emitting that much heat anyway. They're amateurs. And I suspect the fire won't last long. Just long enough to rekindle their spirits.

I don't want to, but I slide a tin from my jacket, knowing I need to eat something, however much my stomach reels against it. I don't look at the contents. Nor do I taste it. But I finish it off entirely while listening to their rowdy banter and boasting. My eyes glaze over as I block out the tales, and I rest my chin on my knees, feeling tired. So tired. Then, against my better judgment, I fall asleep.

x x x x

Out of the blackness, the girl from District 10 reappears, stalking me. She leans over me and spits a mouthful of blood into my face, and the hot, wet redness is everywhere._ Everywhere_. I writhe on the ground unable to get it off. It's adhering to my skin—like paint. She smiles, and her barred teeth are red, too. She prowls around me stealthily, steadily, knife raised and ready to strike. I cringe in the darkness, unable to find my sword. Panicking. I am utterly defenseless, and she lifts it above her head—.

I wake, terrified and shivering, my body drenched in a clammy sweat, to a repetitive _thwack_, _thwack_, _thwack_. I struggle to sit up out of my awkward, slumped position, my limbs stiff and cramped. The fire has burned down to almost nothing, and every Career but Clove is sleeping soundly around it. In the dim light from the embers, I can see silver flash through the darkness as her knives fly deep into a tree trunk. _Thwack_. _Thwack_.

"How did _she_ get an 11? An 11?!" she spits angrily. She gets up to retrieve her knives and shoots me a withering glare before settling back into her spot on the ground. She throws another knifes and grunts in crazed frustration. Then she looks over her shoulder at me and insists, "_How_?"

I know I have to answer her, but my mind isn't working. It's racing and sluggish all at the same time. I try to sort through the implications of lies versus truth. Does it matter now? Is there any possible way my answer can _hurt_ Katniss? I don't know, and I can't think straight. I shake my head and rub my shaky hands over my face—it's swollen now—cringing as my wounded arm throbs with the movement.

I rest my arms wearily over my knees and say, "She's a dead-shot with the bow and arrow. That's how."

"Oh really?" she sneers coldly, eyebrows raised. "Well, no chance she'll get her hands on that, now. Too bad. I'd like to see it for myself. 'Cause I'm a dead-shot, too. Hopefully, I'll get to show off for her a bit," Clove smiles, dark eyes dancing in the low light. Then she launches another knife at the tree and huffs loudly.

"So," I say, still a little confused—and more than a little anxious. "Knives are your thing?"

Clove laughs incredulously. I shrug. It's a stupid question. I admit it.

"Oh, I've had hours and hours of practice with knives. My father made sure of that," she says darkly, almost to herself. "You?" Clove asks with a malevolent grin.

The way she says it, I wonder what stories and secrets lie beneath the hardened Career exterior. What sort of upbringing is it, really, when you're trained all your life to volunteer as a Tribute in the games? I shudder. No life at all. She never had a chance, and she doesn't even know it. I almost feel a little sympathy for her, for them. Almost.

But she's still staring at me, waiting. I hesitate to answer. I'm _not_ going to tell her I'm a baker. So I hold out my hand. She smirks and slaps one of the knives into it. I feel the weight of it in my palm and am thankful for the time I've spent around Haymitch. At least I know how to hold it properly. I raise the knife, blocking the horrific images from moments ago that flash before my eyes, and hold my breath. I try to copy Clove's fluid movement, the swift snap of her arm, the timing of the release, and hope desperately, as I let it fly, that the knife sticks.

It does. And I breathe again.

Clove stomps over to the trunk, extracts the knife, and tosses it toward me. "Keep it," she growls quietly as she returns to her position, and I tuck it into my belt without a word.

She whips another knife at the tree and jumps up, exasperated. She stalks back to the trunk, yanks all the knives from the meat of the wood, and paces manically around the circle. Finally, she nudges Cato with her foot and yells, "Get up. Get up!"

"What!?" he cries out, grabbing the sword tucked beneath him. He sits up quickly, eyes blazing. "What it is?"

"I want to go get her._ Now_. I don't want to wait till morning," she growls, stomping on the remaining embers with the heel of her boot, flame-orange sparks rising around her. "I want an even dozen."

Cato tilts his head to the side and purses his lips. Then he jumps up. The others are stirring, and I take a deep breath, knowing what's coming. "Sure. Why not?" He looks at me with a maniacal grin. "We want an even dozen by sunrise, Lover Boy. Got that?"

I gulp and stand up, squeezing my sword so hard my fingers protest. "Got it," I say.


	4. Chapter 4

Clove plunges recklessly into the trees, leading the way. She's driven by rage, and the others follow close behind, caught up in her terrible enthusiasm. I try to keep up, but my knee is stiff, and we are still moving downhill. Every impact sends a jarring pain through my leg. I feel frantic. I can't toss myself down the slope with abandon. If I injure myself further, I'm useless to the Careers, which means I would be useless to Katniss. But if I'm not at the front of the pack, I'm not directing—or misdirecting—them. I have no control or influence over what they do or where they go.

They slow down eventually, as the initial excitement and burst of energy subsides, and I make my way closer to the front so that I'm nearly level with Cato. He stays close behind Clove, who is still tearing through the woods with obsessive determination. Though we press on doggedly, I sense her frustration level rising as we continue with no signs of Katniss, and she begins to hack at low-hanging branches with one of her knives.

"Well, Lover Boy," Cato sneers into the dark. "Where is she?"

I swallow with great difficulty before answering. "She wouldn't set up camp on this hill. She wouldn't like it," I reason, casting my flashlight in wide arcs to make it look like I'm searching with equal fervor—but never expecting to find anything.

"So—where then?" Glimmer complains wearily from behind us. "It feels like we've walked for hours."

I hesitate, unsure what to say. I _don't_ think she'd want to be camped on this terrain. It would make for a poor vantage point and a difficult escape. But I don't know what condition she's in or when the slope ends. She may not have had a choice. She may have _had_ to stop. Which is not something I want to tell them.

"I really don't think she'd stop here unless she was forced to," I repeat carefully, monitoring Cato's response. I know he's going to want more. He's going to want specifics. Specifics I can't give.

"Well that's doesn't help us at all!" Clove grunts in frustration, throwing her knife into the ground.

She finally slows to a walk and plucks her knife from the earth. I can tell by the angry tension in her shoulders, she's getting ready to turn on me. I know it won't be difficult for her to convince the others. I doubt they'd even question her motives. It would be just another cause for celebration.

I'm already preparing to brace myself for the attack—or run. I haven't decided which. Neither would end well. And the truth of it adds to my hesitation. But, suddenly, Cato stops and places a hand on Clove's arm.

"What?" she hisses through the darkness.

"Smoke," Cato whispers, hand automatically closing around her arm like a vise. "Do you smell it?"

Everyone freezes and falls silent, as if the lack of sound will enhance their other senses. I sniff the cool air, hoping he's wrong. But he's not. I can just catch the familiar scent on the light breeze that moves through the trees. My chest constricts, and I sweep my flashlight around, again, quickly. A chill runs through my body unlike any induced by the night thus far when a small, beady eye flashes back at me. I almost jump, but manage to control myself. I deliberately, nonchalantly, continue moving the light over the path before swinging it back in the other direction.

The black eye is still there.

_It's an animal_. A dead animal. Caught in a snare of some kind. Fierce panic rises within me when I realize this could only have been set by Katniss. And if she expects to catch her next meal with this trap, she won't be far away. Only, I have no idea _how_ far and in what direction. I don't know where to go from here. I could be leading the Careers away from her, or I could be leading them right to her.

Before I have the chance to deliberate, I hear Clove say darkly, "I smell it, too."

She whips her head around, wild eyes searching the faces of the other Careers, lip curled in a snarl. "Well?" she demands.

They all nod and, without warning, Cato takes off through the trees. We chase after him, the smell of the smoke growing heavier and more pungent in the air with every step. And with every smoky breath, the palpable glee in the pack grows. Their pace quickens with their increasing exuberance. They are unleashed, and I have no hope of holding them back. I can only hope it's not Katniss.

_Please, please, don't be Katniss_, I think desperately.

I try to keep up, just in case. I am at their heels, but it's not enough. I won't get there in time. And I don't know what I'll do if it's her._ No_, I correct myself. _I do_. Of course, I do. I'll do anything. I've already decided that. I already told Haymitch as much.

But they break through the trees and are upon the Tribute before I can see who it is. And before the person can escape. They must have been sleeping, taken completely by surprise. Then I hear a voice, pleading.

"No. No! Please!" she says, choking on the words.

I swerve around the last tree and see the terrified face of the girl from District 8. I am ashamed of myself for being relieved.

She whimpers and pleads as they stalk towards her, in no rush now that another death, one Tribute closer to victory, is assured. But she will not lay there and go quietly. She bunches her legs like a spring beneath her and tries to catch them off guard, to launch herself into the woods. Her effort is no match for Cato's long stride, and he is upon her as soon as she's turned. His sword flashes through the air, and a blood-curdling scream pierces the night as he jabs it deep into her back, throwing her body to the hard ground.

The girl lies unmoving, frozen in the awkward sprawl in which she fell to the earth. I see dark blood pool beneath the puncture in her jacket, and I cannot pull my stunned eyes away. It will never get easier to see someone die. Never. But the Careers are laughing and congratulating one another. It is all noise to me, the kind that can drive you mad if it doesn't stop.

"Nice work with the smoke," says Clove, clapping Cato on the back.

"And with the sword," adds the girl from District 4 with a wicked grin.

"Twelve down and eleven to go!" hoots Marvel loudly, thrusting an arm into the air. Like a hero.

I have to say something. Anything. "Uh, how about we check her for supplies," I suggest mechanically, already moving toward the body. I kneel beside her and quickly shove my hands into the outer pockets. Nothing.

"Anything good?" asks Cato, brandishing his sword excitedly.

I shake my head, ready to be done. Ready to leave the girl for the hovercraft. Ready to draw the Careers away from the area completely. Ready to be far, far away from Katniss, who, I now know, is still out there somewhere. Somewhere nearby.

"Check her belt," Clove calls out, still pulsing with adrenaline as she paces around the pitiful campsite.

I lift the jacket and check the loops in the belt for other supplies or weapons. Again, nothing. I shake my head without looking up. I feel like I've committed the worst of violations, like I've somehow taken more in her death than Cato took from her in life. There is no peace, here, even in the stillness. Can there ever be, again?

"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," laughs Cato callously.

Everyone mumbles their agreement, and District 4 pulls out her torch to light it with the embers from the dying fire before they turn to go. We head back in the same general direction, but in the dim light of what must be early morning, it's still difficult to navigate a path confidently, even with the added glow of the torch. The trees all look the same to me, and the Careers were in such a hurry to ambush the girl, no one paid much attention to getting oriented when we diverged from our original trajectory.

But all I can think about is Katniss. Deep, irrational fear wells up in me. What if they're not satisfied with this—with their even dozen? What if they want to keep searching for her, _here_? What if they're tired of me and want to kill me now, before I can get them to leave? What if I can't keep her safe?

I'm staring at the feet of the Career in front of me, but I hardly see anything. So I don't notice when Marvel halts unexpectedly, and I almost run into him. "Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?" he asks cautiously, looking around the small clearing we've just reached.

"I'd say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately," District 4 observes, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Unless she isn't dead," says Clove accusingly, tilting her head in Cato's direction, eyebrows narrowed.

"She's dead. I stuck her myself," he insists forcefully, thrusting his sword through the air for good measure.

"Then where's the cannon?" Clove retorts harshly, fingering the knife she's been dying to throw.

"Someone should go back. Make sure the job's done," suggests District 4, shifting her weight from foot to foot impatiently.

"Yeah, we don't want to have to track her down twice," Glimmer chimes in, stretching her arms over her head with a yawn.

"I said she's dead!" bellows Cato in annoyance, stabbing his sword fiercely into the ground. It slides in easily.

They continue arguing over what to do, and I feel like I'm going to explode. The internal tension grows and grows until I finally burst. "We're wasting time!" I yell at them. "I'll go finish her and let's move on!"

Cato looks at me, face lit with malicious surprise, and smirks, "Go on, then, Lover Boy. See for yourself."

I don't offer a reply. I just take off toward to the girl without thinking about what I've said, without thinking through what I've committed to do.

I don't think about it until I break through the trees and see her lying beside the fire, limbs askew, breathing through shallow wheezes in between low groans. Then it hits me, hard, in the face, and I am almost knocked over with the force of it. I double over and drop my sword to the ground, clutching my knees with white-knuckled hands while my stomach twists in knots.

Did I really agree to kill this girl just so we could get away from a place where Katniss _might_ be? I'm not even sure where we are—or who I am. I try to remember the things Haymitch said to me, and it's like grasping at a ghost, a ghost who's taunting me, and haunting me. I can't catch it. But I _do_ remember what I told Katniss on the rooftop the night before all this began. That I didn't want to become a monster.

I was prepared to kill, if I had to, but I always assumed it would be in self-defense, under great duress. I always assumed I would have no choice, that it would be clear to me, in the moment, that there was no other option. I could justify that. I never considered a situation like this—whatever_ this_ is.

But I realize, I can't stop what I've set in motion. It's too late. There is no _other_ option. I have to do it, now. Because if I don't, one of _them_ will. And they won't be nearly so careful—or merciful—about it. In fact, they would be more likely to viciously cause additional pain, to the girl and to her watching family and friends. And they would enjoy it.

I listen to her struggling, raspy breaths. Cato might have punctured a lung. We had injuries like that back in District 12. And others, too—the tragedies you somehow survived just to be treated to a long and excruciating death. The broken limbs that weren't set right and got infected. The neck injuries that took everything from you but the ability to breathe—so that you wish it had. The gashes and cuts that let bacteria and other poisons into your bloodstream, killing you slowly, from the inside.

I shake my head and force myself to snatch the sword from the ground. My body trembles as I walk toward the girl from District 8, and I am glad her eyes are closed as I approach and hover over her. She is too weak to move, too weak to acknowledge I am there. I look her over quickly, trying to decide the best—quickest and most painless—place to strike. _Is_ there such a place? I desperately want to close my eyes but know that if I do, I might miss, and I can't let that happen.

I pull in a long, deep breath, which contrasts sharply with the sound of hers, and raise my sword above me, letting my eyes focus on the back of her head. I whisper to myself,_ I don't want them to change me_. _I don't want them to change me_. Then I hold my breath as I whip the sword through the air and bring it down with swift force upon my target.

The blade hits the mark, and I fall backward to the ground, wanting it to swallow me whole, desiring with everything in me to just die now and get it over with. _But_.

An urgent need, more pressing than my desire to die, prods at the back of my mind. It is the desire to live. Because—_Katniss_.

I force myself to stand and pull the sword from the girl with my shaking hand. I have to calm down. It doesn't matter how I feel. I have to be confident and cool-headed when I return, able to think, able to strategize, able to do what needs to be done. This gives them one more reason to trust me, to believe that I'll be willing and able to hand over Katniss when the time comes. I have to go back and take full advantage of whatever—respect—I've gained in their eyes, even if I never regain it in my own. And I've already taken long enough.

I almost have possession of myself, again, when I look down and see the blood on the sword. I try desperately to wipe the red from the blade. I run it frantically over the ground, but it just smears. The blade is dark crimson, and I think I might vomit. I clutch my hands to my mouth and stifle a scream, and then I force myself to run, just run.

The Careers are conversing in hushed voices, but I hear them as I near the clearing. "Wish we knew how she got that eleven," Marvel grumbles.

"Bet you Lover Boy knows," Cato growls in reply.

I propel myself over the last few yards, practically throwing myself through the trees so that I burst upon them just as Clove begins to open her mouth. As soon as Cato sees me, he silences them with a terse look and asks, "Was she dead?

I'm breathing heavily from the exertion—and the panic. If Katniss_ is _nearby, she's probably heard all of this, and the thought makes my head spin. I am willing for the world to think me a back-stabbing traitor, though Haymitch and I know better. I am even willing to go to my death knowing Katniss strongly distrusts and dislikes me right now, after all the conflicting and confusing things I said and did during our time in the Capitol. But I can't stand the thought of her believing my claim of wanting to be different than the other Tributes, of wanting to resist the Capitol by not losing myself—was a lie. And then hating me for it.

_We have to leave_.

I close my eyes and spit out quickly, "No. But she is now." The cannon sounds, loud and clear, and I exhale with horrible relief. "Ready to move on?"

I don't wait for them to agree with me. I just plunge into the woods, heading away from the clearing, back the way we came. I plow through the trees and relish the pain shooting through my legs as they churn up the hill. The pack follows me at a run, and I continue without looking back until Glimmer calls out, "Wait! Hold up! Where are we going?"

The others stop behind me, and I reluctantly halt my ascent, turning to look at them, trying to retain the mask of confidence and determination I've carefully cultivated in their presence. Glimmer hangs her head and rests her hands on her knees. District 4 leans against a tree, and I can see the weariness showing through their hardened exteriors now. That plays in my favor.

"Yah, Lover Boy, what's the plan?" Cato asks curtly, narrowing his eyes as he takes a step toward me. "What about the girl from 12? You promised—."

I don't give him the chance to finish. "Listen, I got you the dozen you wanted by morning. And I'll get you Katniss Everdeen, but it's not going to be today," I say, cutting him down with an authoritative tone.

He raises his eyebrows at me threateningly and seems about to argue, so I interject again. "This is a big arena, and we covered a lot of ground for the first raid. We know where she _isn't, _and that's a good start. We also know there's no water on this side of the woods, which means she's not going to be here, and there's no point going further in that direction," I explain, leaning on my sword.

The Careers exchange disgruntled looks, and I know I can't lose control of this situation. Whatever I'm struggling with inside has to stay there. I have to remain in control. So I pull my half-empty water bottle from my belt loop and hold it out to them. "Speaking of water, how much do you have? Running low?" I ask slyly, knowingly. "What about food? How much do you have left?"

Without thinking they pat down their pockets and check their supplies. Worried frowns replace their grimaces of displeasure. "Do you have enough to keep searching for the girl _and_ get back to the Cornucopia?" I prod, taking a healthy swig of water from my bottle for effect before smacking my dry lips loudly.

"Probably not," Cato admits begrudgingly, gazing longingly at a tin of food he's extracted from his jacket before tucking it away for a later hour.

"Then we've got to head back to the supplies and regroup. And that will take us the better part of the day, especially going up this hill," I say, gesturing toward the intimidating incline. "We can't waste any more time."

Cato's face contorts, and I can tell that he knows I'm right, but is loathe to admit it. He cocks his head and spits, "Alright, but I've got one question for you."

I meet his eyes and don't look away. Somehow I know what he's going to ask, and I have to be the one to tell him.

"How _did_ she get that eleven?" he sneers, leaning toward me, intending to intimidate me with his sheer mass and unnerving proximity. He's practically daring me not to answer.

Clove holds her tongue and smirks, enjoying the test—and probably hoping to see me squirm. But I won't.

"With the bow and arrow," I say coolly and without hesitation, nodding toward Glimmer to acknowledge our possession of the weapon in question. "There's no one in District 12 as deadly," I confess, letting my voice drop menacingly low as I hold Clove's glare. Then I turn to Cato, "And we'll take her down—when we're ready."

Then I turn back to conquer the hill.

_**Author's Note: This chapter contains some dialogue from the original Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins retains complete creative credit for those excerpts. I included the overlapping portions for the sole purpose of retaining continuity within the story.**_


	5. Chapter 5

As I predicted, the journey back to the Cornucopia takes most of the day. The sun burns bright and hot overhead, following as we trudge slowly up the long slope. Even after we reach flat ground, it moves with us, taunting us after we run out of food, and then water. In spite of my continued reminders to the Careers to eat and drink sparingly, it just doesn't last. We didn't bring enough with us and won't make that mistake twice—assuming we get another chance. But every hour that passes without that necessary sustenance, our slogging pace slows yet again, and it gets harder and harder to hold off the foreboding feeling of imminent collapse.

When the green of the trees falls from view and we finally stumble into the widespread brown of the clearing which nestles the golden Cornucopia in the center, the colorless sky is turning pink at the edges. District 3 emerges warily from the metal shelter, holding one of many spears left in the weapons cache, but we barely acknowledge him as we head directly for the lake and toss our bodies onto the coolness of its bank.

After many long minutes of listlessness, I pull my bottle from my belt and crawl to the edge of the water. I hoist myself up to a sitting position and watch the air bubbles gurgling to the surface as it fills the container to the brim. The others begin to do the same with their own, and we all sit in lethargic, parched silence while we wait for the iodine to do it's purifying work. When enough time has passed we bring the bottles greedily to our lips. I drink until my belly seems to swell, and then fill the bottle a second time.

Blackness has almost fallen over the arena by the time I feel like moving. The Careers have dozed off where they lie, and I don't disturb them, glad to have a few minutes of calm, time where I'm not constantly aware of every word that leaves my mouth and every possible ramification of its impact. I may be gifted with words, but that doesn't mean I don't feel the weight of them, especially now. Besides, I don't want to sleep. I don't know what I'll see if I do. And I'd rather face the darkness of night than any other kind.

I shudder and wearily make my way back to the Cornucopia, careful to appear as congenial and non-threatening as possible. District 3 stands awkwardly as I approach, his anxiety evident as he watches me. I exaggerate my limp just a bit and then stop about ten yards away.

"Mind if I get something to eat?" I ask quietly. I look down at my sword and nod toward the neatly-arranged rows of crates and bins beside the Cornucopia. "And I'd really like to lay this down," I add with a small smile, working to soften the edge to my voice. "It's kind of heavy."

The boy's wide eyes zero in on the sword, and he nods vacantly, not pulling his gaze from it's blood-tinged blade until I've leaned it against one of the stacks. Then I walk toward him empty-handed and say lightly, "So, is it a little too much to hope for some Capitol-quality food? I mean, they get us used to the good stuff and then dump us out here with tins of dried meat. That's not really fair."

"I don't think fair plays into it," the scrawny boy mumbles, dragging a large bin from one of the piles with difficulty. "But see what you think. It's not too bad," he says, nodding for me to help myself.

I dig through it and select a few nondescript tins—they really all look the same, and I honestly don't care what I eat. I've probably had worse. Plus, I'm just making conversation, trying to put him at ease. So I lower myself to the ground and pry the first open, hungrily working my way through the contents. The boy cautiously settles himself across from me and watches me eat without another word.

I'm well through the second when the anthem begins to play, and I pause woodenly, anticipating what comes next. As the last strains of the anthem echo through the arena, the colorless face of the girl from District 8 lights the sky. My face falls, and I abruptly toss the unfinished tin to the ground. I hold my head in my hands and fight the violent urge to retch.

"Careful," the boy says quietly, interrupting the wave of nausea that's rolling over me and snapping me back to reality.

"What?" I ask dizzily, peering at him through my fingers.

"If they see you reacting like that, they might think you're suffering from remorse," he observes, tilting his head curiously before resting his chin on his bony knees.

"Wouldn't want that," I reply dryly, running a white hand through my dirty hair with a heavy sigh. "Speaking of—I should probably make sure they get some." I stand and stretch, forcing myself to concentrate on the ache in my extremities and not the reeling sensation in my center.

I look around aimlessly and offer with a parting shrug, "Nice job with the supplies, by the way."

"And I wouldn't say things like that," District 3 says seriously, his voice low and his shoulders hunched.

"Don't worry about me," I laugh haltingly, my face and voice tight. "I'm careful." Even I can hear how hollow I sound, and I turn equally serious. "How about you? Are _you_ being careful? Do you have a—plan?" I ask, my eyes wide and expectant.

The boy looks me up and down, sizing me up, before finally admitting in a guarded tone, "I'm working on one."

I nod and head back toward the lake, frustrated, leaving my sword behind. I don't want the boy to die. I don't want _anyone_ to die. But that's not up to me. I can't exactly give him advice or help, because Katniss is going to win this. I won't consider any other outcome. And that means the rest of us—don't. By default.

I reach the lake and watch them quietly. I wonder how far I could get, if I tried to take them out, one by one. Right now. Probably not very far. There's a reason that strategy never came up in my discussions with Haymitch. I sigh and creep forward. I don't dare nudge any of them, like Clove so boldly did to Cato the night before, but I call out firmly, "Hey, wake up. You should eat something. District 3 found a lot more food."

They begin to stir, already partially-awakened by the playing of the anthem. They throw a few groggy glares my way, but I ignore them, back to being confident but careful. I know I might suffer more for their annoyance if they weren't so ravenous, but once the desire for food overtakes them, the Careers disregard me, scramble from the lake, and converge on the bin produced by the boy.

They throw themselves unceremoniously to the ground, ignoring District 3 for the time being, and delve into the tins, tearing through them one after another. I want to remind them to consider whether the limited supply can outlast their demand, but I don't.

After the urgency begins to die down, Cato turns his attention back to the supplies. "So, you get everything sorted out? What'd you find?" he asks the boy between mouthfuls, not even waiting for the answer to the first question before following with the second.

The boys swallows, visibly, and replies, "I went through every container—found all the medical supplies, food, and survival stuff, like blankets, lights, matches—and divided everything out so we'd know what was what and where to find it." He nods to his neatly-separated stacks of containers. "Also found some things I don't see a use for but—," he shrugs and lets his voice trail off, hesitant to verbalize that he doesn't know their purpose. That might reinforce the perilous view that he, himself, has none.

"Like what?" Marvel asks lazily from his lounging position between mouthfuls of food.

"Well, like this," District 3 mumbles, digging through a bin from the stack indicated as survival supplies. Finally, he produces two unremarkable pairs of glasses and holds them up for everyone's inspection. "What do we need these for?" he asks, confused.

The girl from District 4 spits out a mouthful of crackers and sits up excitedly. "Are those what I think they are?" she asks breathlessly, looking around the Career pack. "My mentor told me about them, but I've never seen a pair!"

Cato nimbly jumps to his feet and snatches them from District 3s hand before the shock even registers on the boy's face. "I'll take those," he declares, his eyes gleaming. He examines them eagerly, then tosses Clove a pair. She practically hisses.

He smirks and fingers the glasses, letting his eyes flit over the whole arrangement, satisfied. Then I see the corners of his mouth turn up as his lip begins to curl in a malevolent smile, and I can tell he's thinking the boy has efficiently worked himself to the end of his usefulness. My palms begin to feel sticky with sweat, and nervousness tightens my stomach. I'm about to preemptively interject—give some nonchalant explanation for why we should keep him around—when the boy does it himself.

"I've been thinking," he begins cautiously, trailing a stick through the dirt beside him, "that you shouldn't leave all these valuable supplies unprotected. If you do, another Tribute might raid the place. And then where would you be?"

Clove laughs viciously, pulling out her knives for more target practice, and scoffs, "And what? You think we'd trust _you_ to protect all this? You think we_ need _you for that?"

The other Careers join in her laughter, and the boy's eyes darken in his blanched face. He sinks back into himself and says, "No. Leave one person behind and_ any_ Tribute might overcome them. Certainly me," he admits quietly, clenching the stick. "But set up a booby trap of some kind, perhaps something—explosive—and that'll hold off _anybody_," he says, letting the words drop into the air, hanging there for consideration.

Cato cocks his head and watches him with narrowed eyes. And I think, for the first time, maybe District 3 is more clever than any of us realized. "What do you have in mind?" Cato asks, intrigued, as he tosses one last empty tin onto his massive pile.

"I dug up one of the mines today," he says, matter of fact, pointing in the direction of a broad metal disc lying not 15 feet from where we all sit.

Everyone freezes, faces full of anxiety and distrust, but District 3 continues evenly, "Don't worry, it's not active. But—I think it _can _be. I examined it today—thought it was best to do that while everyone was gone—and I'm pretty sure I can re-activate it. All we have to do," he says, pausing for effect, "is decide where to put them."

The sound of everyone in our scattered circle exhaling is audible. Marvel mutters, "Kid's crazy," under his breath, and Glimmer shoves her food away. But Cato eyes District 3 with renewed interest. Just the right kind of crazy, I guess.

"What were you waiting for then?" Cato asks accusingly, pulling his sword to his side. Always wary, always thinking like a Career.

"Well, they're heavy, so it'd be good to have help, especially since I think it'd be best to move everything out in the open—easier to defend from all sides. And," he says, bringing his eyes up to meet Cato's for the first time, "the work is a little delicate to be doing in the dark."

Cato considers him and eventually spits, "Fine. Tomorrow then," before turning to Clove, eyes bright with excitement. "Want to head out again?

"Thought you'd never ask," she hisses, grabbing her knives from the ground and sliding them smoothly back into their slots.

Glimmer stands and grabs a sleeping bag from the stack of bedding-related supplies. "I'm not going tonight," she declares with a pout, unrolling the bag on the ground without waiting for permission. "We walked all day, and I'm tired. Why do you want to go out now, anyway? Why not tomorrow?"

"Because it's easier to ambush someone at night," Clove says with a menacing grin. "And we won't be gone so long this time. So who's in?"

Marvel stands and snatches up his spear. "Sure, why not?" he shrugs without much feeling. "May as well."

The girl from District 4 pulls another sleeping bag from the stash and simply says, "I opt for tomorrow, too."

Clove turns to me and runs her fingers deliberately over each knife, making sure each one is secure, then zips up her jacket. "What about you, Lover Boy?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.

I flick a glance at Cato and suggest, "If you're not going to be gone long, you won't be going deep enough to find _her_ tonight. So I think I'll stay and talk over the plans for tomorrow with District 3, since I assume I'll be helping him."

Cato's mouth spreads into a wide grin, and I can see all his teeth shining through the dark. "You're right about that, Lover Boy. You will be." Then he turns to Marvel and Clove, sliding the glasses smoothly onto his face, "Well, come on then. Let's try these out and see if we can do any more damage!"

They pluck full bottles of water from one of the bins and take off toward the woods. Glimmer and the other girl settle down into their bags, comfortably protected from the chill that's quickly spreading around us. I grab two bags from the pile and lay them a good distance away, nodding to the boy to join me. I retrieve my sword and tuck it just beneath the bag, so it's within easy reach, before crawling in myself. The boy follows my lead and disappears into his own. He lies on his stomach with only his head protruding from it's depths.

"So what_ is_ the plan, exactly?" I ask quietly, my voice muffled by the bag. It feels so warm, my body practically melts into it.

"Pretty much what I already said," he whispers into his slender arm. "I think we should move everything out into the open. It will appear easily accessible. Very tempting for the other Tributes out there. And very easy for us to safely surround on all sides."

"Safely?" I laugh, unable to hide a smile as I pull the bag closer around me to shut out the coolness. "Really?"

"Well, no," District 3 acknowledges, peeking over the edge of his arm. "I meant _surely_. We can be _sure_ to cover all angles of approach that way."

"Hmmm, thought so. Good to know I might get blown to bits tomorrow, so I can go ahead and get mentally prepared tonight. Thanks for that," I say, shaking my head and closing my eyes. "And that's the extent of the plan?" I ask one more time, opening the nearest eye to carefully judge his expression.

"Yep. That's it," he claims as he pulls his head all the way into his bag.

"Okay," I mumble. I don't know whether he's being completely forthright or not. And I really shouldn't trust anybody. But my senses begin to dull and, in spite of my intense desire to stay awake and fully aware, I can feel sleep begin to drag me under, subduing me.

X X X X

I am back at the campsite, and the girl from District 8 is sprawled on the ground. She's _still _not dead, and I know what I have to do. I have to kill her,_ again_. That's why I'm here. I stalk toward her, my body trembling with equal parts revoltion and equal parts impatience. _How many times will I have to kill you_? I think. I raise the sword above my head and bring it down with all the force of a baker who can lift 100-pound bags of flour. The strike is swift and sure, without hesitation, yet I'm not prepared for the blood that splatters over me.

It's red, and it's everywhere. But she's still groaning, somehow, and I claw at my ears to make it stop. _Just die. Just die already_. _I don't want to do it again, _I cry out in anguish.

_Peeta_? she groans hoarsely through rattling breaths.

_How does she know my name_?! I wonder, dragging ragged fingernails across my wretched face. I roll her over desperately. I want to run away, but I can't. I can't. _What more do I have to do_? _What more before they come_? I lean over her on my hands and knees, listening to the lungs that won't fail, and I finally see her face in the darkness. _It's Katniss_.

_Peeta, don't let me die_. _Don't kill me_, she whispers.

I can't breathe. I'm frantic, and I don't know where to put my hands or what to say. I don't know how this happened, but I want to breathe all of my life into her so that she'll stay. So that she'll stay.

_No, no, Katniss_. _Don't go_. _I don't want to kill you_. _I don't want you to die_.

I gather her to me, and the blood is everywhere. She is slippery in my hands, and I can hardly hold her to me. She feels like a feather in my arms, and I am so heavy. So heavy. I bury my face into her neck, and then I hear_ thwack_, _thwack_, _thwack_, as a sneering Clove emerges from the black and looses three daggers directly into Katniss' back. I can feel the life-breath leave her in one final exhale.

My body tenses and rebels against it, and I sit up in my sleeping bag, given over to my panic. I am drenched with sweat and deranged in mind. I blink my bleary eyes repeatedly and see Clove sitting nearby throwing knives at another target, but I can't seem to process the image. To separate what's real—from what isn't. _Thwack_,_ thwack_,_ thwack_. Every one is like a dagger in my chest, piercing my heart, breaking me open. I flop back onto the ground and try to breathe again. I feel like I don't remember how.

"Problems, Lover Boy?" she sneers into the night before launching another knife through the air.

I flinch noticeably. "Nope," I say as evenly as possible and roll over in my bag so that I can't see her.

Out of the darkness I hear a whisper, "You probably shouldn't do _that_, either."

"Right, I just won't sleep ever again," I exhale wearily, utterly exhausted in every sense. "Who needs it? And if I'm tempted, I'll keep myself awake by going over the long list of things _not_ to do in the Hunger Games," I laugh quietly in a weak attempt at humor.

"I figure, I'll sleep when I'm dead," the boy replies flatly, coldly. I feel the chill.

"That I will," I agree, all humor gone as I stare wildly into the blackness. "That I will."


	6. Chapter 6

I don't know what time Cato, Clove, and Marvel returned or when I woke from my nightmare—or if I ever got any sleep after that. If I did, it was restless. So when the sun finally begins to emerge from the dark horizon, I am thoroughly drained, but also glad the night has ended at last. I drag my body from the sleeping bag, roll it up, and toss it next to the pile of supplies. Then I rummage through the bin of food and select a few tins I've finally come to recognize as those containing dried fruit. We didn't get much of that in District 12, so I might as well enjoy it while I can.

I lower my body to the ground and prop myself against one of the heavier crates. District 3 begins to stir—he must have fallen asleep eventually, as well. It's hard not to. I know. There comes a point where the weariness in your body is stronger than the fear in your mind. Unfortunately, the mind doesn't always sleep just because the body does. I shiver and force myself to enjoy the colors of the sunrise rather than dwell on the other images which threaten to overtake my thoughts, again.

District 3 sits up and stretches casually, though all the while his eyes dart around the camp making a mental note of each Career's presence. They're all still deep in oblivious sleep—or appear to be. Clove clutches one of her knives to her chest in an iron grip, and I'm sure Cato's sword, though unseen, is close at hand, so I'm not going to be the one to disturb them and test the assumption.

I finish off the last of the tangy fruits from my tin, savoring the sweetness, then stand and walk stiffly back to the open bin. I pick a few from the top, including one of the fruits, and toss them to the boy. Without looking at him I say, "I'm going to the lake to fill up my water bottle. After you're done eating, we can start working on your plan—if you want."

I grab my sword and my bottle and jog toward the lake, hoping to work out some of the kinks in my joints and muscles before the long day of work ahead. A cool, refreshing breeze blows over the water and, if I were to close my eyes, I could _almost_ forget where I am. Except, you can't really forget you're in the arena of the Hunger Games. No matter how beautiful the location, how vibrant the colors, how exotic or wild or enticing the view, it is still the arena. And when _I _close my eyes, I still see red.

So I hurry back to the Cornucopia, wanting to busy my mind and my body, missing the early mornings spent in the bakery before school, where the warmth of the oven mingled with the chill of the hour. And the smell—breathing in the smell of bread coming to life somehow awakened it in me. I didn't realize how much I truly missed it—and my family, such as they are—until now, and it's a struggle to fight off the sadness that threatens to overwhelm with the knowledge that I will never set foot in District 12 again.

I am agitated when I reach District 3, and my arms are itching for the work, to get lost in the familiar agony and energy of lifting and sweat. I don't care that my arm still throbs when I move it. That is nothing to all of the other things I feel. So I don't hesitate, the words tumble out, "I'm going to start moving everything away from the Cornucopia, okay? And don't worry, I'll keep it all separated out."

I don't wait for a reply. I just grab a container from the nearest pile and walk it about 30 yards away before depositing it in the middle of the open ground. Then I return to the same pile and grab something else. A sack, a bin, a crate. It doesn't matter. I work diligently and purposefully and enjoy the immersion in the menial. By the time I've worked through the first stack of supplies, the sky is light and my muscles are warm, and I move on to the next. The boy finishes his small meal and joins me, opting to move the lighter loads while leaving the weightier items to me. And I don't mind at all.

The Careers sleep on, even as the sun rises overhead. I'm not surprised that Cato, Clove, and Marvel are catching up after their nighttime excursion, but I _am_ surprised that Glimmer and District 4 aren't awake yet. I've never slept that long in my life. It would never have been allowed, and I'm not even sure I could—or that I'd_ want_ to. Though I was tempted to feel some sympathy for the Careers before, I realize, again, how different our lives have been, and in more ways than I ever knew.

Eventually Glimmer and District 4 do awaken, but rather than sit and watch us work, they take their food to the lake and lounge on the bank, weapons never far from reach.

When we have successfully moved all the supplies to their new location, we stand and survey our work. I cross my arms over my chest and smile, in spite of myself. It's really all pointless. Just a ruse to keep the Careers distracted and to make ourselves useful. In the grand scheme of the games, it's just another strategic move in a larger plan I probably won't see the end of. But I'm satisfied anyway.

District 3 interrupts my thoughts and muses, "You know, if we really want this to function like a trap and not just a defensive strategy, we've got to make it look more than enticing. It's got to look _safe_, too. Otherwise, it's just suspicious—being out in the open like this."

I raise my eyebrows and run a blistering hand through my sticky hair. "What do you mean?" I ask curiously.

"Well, once the mines are in the ground, that should take care of anyone trying to steal the supplies," he says thoughtfully, shielding his eyes with a hand as he looks it all over. "But it would also be beneficial to—everyone—if it actually draws them in, too. Then even if the mines don't get them, _we_ would."

"What do you have in mind?" I ask eagerly, caught up in the intricacy of the plan.

"If we somehow make it look like a shelter, like we actually spend time over here, then the other Tributes won't be as cautious about approaching it," he states, matter of fact, pursing his lips together as his eyes roam over the stacks.

"That's ingenious!" I say with a grin, smacking him on the back before circling the supplies, literally considering the problem from all angles.

"Thanks," he mutters, unable to hide a small smile as he shuffles his feet on the ground, kicking up the dry, brown dirt in a dusty cloud.

Then an idea hits me, and I start digging through one of the supply crates. "I saw some netting in this one earlier. That would be perfect!" I exclaim excitedly, shoving item after item aside to get to the bottom of the large crate. "It would look like we'd hung it up for shade. And—here it is!" I say happily, producing the netting and yanking it from the crate with some effort.

We hang the netting off the topmost bin and arrange it so that it's splayed over the side of the massive pile. Then we anchor the canopy with some other supplies and sit beneath it to rest for a few minutes. It actually does provide some decent shade, which is more than welcome now that the heat of the sun beats down upon us in full force.

District 3 leans back on his hands and observes pointedly, "So, you're really strong, you know."

I rest my head against a metal bin behind me and try to keep my voice even, replying seriously without cracking a smile, "Yep, I'm not just a pretty face."

But I can't help it. I laugh, and he laughs, and it's nice to be laughing about something other than death. The Careers favorite inside joke.

District 3 lays down on the ground and tucks his hands behind his head. He stares at the patterns in the netting, diamonds of light shifting over him, and says, "And you're funny, too."

I just shake my head and chuckle, massaging my sore knee. It's feeling better, thankfully. "Well, _you're_ pretty smart," I acknowledge freely. "Smarter than anyone gave you credit for."

The boy says nothing. I can tell from the stony set of his face that he knows it won't make a difference. It won't change his fate. So he goes on as if it was never said. "I liked your interview with Flickerman. So did the crowd."

I rest my elbows on my knees and stare at the sun glinting off the Cornucopia. "Lot of good it's done me. No sponsors yet!" I say lightly with the same it-wouldn't-matter attitude.

"But you're teamed up with _them_. You don't really _need_ sponsors, do you?" he states quietly, closing his eyes, trying to soak up the few minutes of rest.

"I guess not," I agree, tracing a design in the dirt with my finger. "Not yet, anyway. Just trying to stay useful. And keep them distracted," I mumble into the shadows.

"Useful," the boy repeats flatly, frowning. "You don't joke around with them, though," he observes, opening his eyes and watching me curiously, brow furrowed. "Seems like that'd be distracting."

I laugh under my breath, then bite my lip, dragging my finger through the brown dust with more intensity. "It wouldn't feel—right—here. With them. Plus, they're not the types to appreciate it. Too much internal rage for a developed sense of humor." Or more accurately, I think, for _my_ kind of humor. I certainly don't care for theirs.

"And it draws unnecessary attention," I add with a shrug. Like a hologram, I need to be there, but not be there. Or like an illusion. Performing an act while appearing not to do so. Disappearing behind the show while the audience—in this case, the Careers—never really sees me.

"I think _you're_ a lot more clever than they realize," District 3 says quietly, then he sits up and shifts around restlessly. It really is useless to try and relax.

I sigh. "I don't know about that. I just—," I pause and rest my chin in my hand, trying to figure out how to explain it. "I just know the right things to say to people, somehow."

Well, _most _people.

I've never known what to say to Katniss, the one person I desperately _wanted_ to say the right words to. But they've always eluded me. And even if I had figured that out, eventually—I wasn't sure she'd like me. I'm still not sure. I've never known how to be—myself—around her, let alone make her understand how deep my feelings truly are.

Maybe that's just one of the many things about her that mesmerize and intrigue me. I love that she _doesn't_ know the right thing to say. To hardly anybody! And this Capitol act doesn't come easy to her. She can't be anyone other than herself. She wouldn't know how, and I admire that about her. She knows who she is and what she's capable of, and she doesn't worry about what other people think about it. Not like me.

If I ever have the chance to tell her how I feel, away from the stage and the lights and all the show—or even in the _midst_ of it, at this point—I want her to know it's real and genuine, not a charming, well-played act for attention at her expense. In spite of and apart from the games we're forced to play, it's _real_. Whoever else knows, I don't care. I want _her_ to know. For sure.

I'm startled from my inner monologue by the sight of Cato emerging through the sun-bright haze, light reflecting off the sword he swings lazily at his side. He approaches the makeshift netting shelter, still chewing a chunk of dried meat, and runs his eyes over our work. "So, what's all—this?" he asks, gesturing around with his weapon.

It's the boy's plan, but I feel responsible for him, somehow, so I take on the task of explaining it to Cato. "Like we said yesterday, we moved the supplies out into the open so we can arrange the mines on all sides. This way, the Cornucopia doesn't block the line of sight. You can see anyone who's coming," I say, matter of fact, staring up at him from squinting eyes.

"Yah, I got that. What's _this_ for?" Cato asks gruffly, tugging at the netting above our heads.

"Makes it look more like a shelter. Less suspicious. That way, we're not only protecting the supplies defensively," I say slyly, pausing for effect as I stand, "we just might lure someone_ into_ the trap. Someone who would otherwise stay put."

Cato nods and smirks. He doesn't say so, but I think he's pleased with the set-up, which happens to work out well for us. He walks around the stacks of containers, bins, and crates, trailing a line in the dirt with his sword, and demands sharply, "So let's start working on the mines then. It's not a trap—until it's a trap."

I cast a furtive glance at the boy and add as casually as possible, "There's 23 mines left to dig up. It'll go a lot faster with help."

Cato narrows his brutal eyes and seems about to snap, so I interrupt, "We'll take care of getting them activated and reburied, of course—no sense putting _everyone_ in danger. Just thought you'd like it finished before we go out on another hunt."

He considers us in silence for a minute, then turns on his heel without another word, yelling as he stalks back to the Cornucopia, "Glimmer, get up here!"

We follow in his wake and see Glimmer and the girl from District 4 emerge sulkily from the lake. When we reach the others, I see that Marvel is up and eating, while Clove toys with her knives. Cato doesn't wait around. He grabs an ax with a broad head from the stack of weapons and orders, "Everyone get something good for digging. Now."

"Really?" Marvel sputters in disbelief through a mouthful of cracker. "What for?"

"We're going to dig up the mines, while these two—," he says, pointing to me and the boy with his ax, "are going to activate and bury them around the supplies."

"But—," Glimmer starts to whine with her hands on her hips.

"_Everyone's_ going to work so we can get this done," Cato insists impatiently, already heading to the nearest mine and driving the ax into the hard earth. "Once you've dug one up, put them in a pile here," he indicates a spot at our feet with a nod of his head. Then he lifts his flashing eyes to ours, "You'll have to come get them. We're not going anywhere near you while you're working."

I look at the boy, and he shrugs in compliance, so I stoop down to pick up the metal disc he's already unearthed. The other Careers begrudgingly select weapons that can double as tools, and we trudge back toward the supplies together.

I lay it carefully on the ground and stare at it nervously, folding my arms over my body and shifting from one foot to the other. "How're we going to do this?" I ask uncertainly, throwing the boy an uneasy sideways glance.

"Well, you dig a shallow hole a few inches wider in diameter than the mine. Then we'll place it inside, stabilize it flush against one side, cover it with dirt—and I'll activate it from the open side before pushing the dirt up against it," he answers thoughtfully, eyes glazed over in concentration as he stares at the explosive object in front of us.

"And that's going to work!?" I say incredulously, leaning over with my hands on my knees for support.

"It should," District 3 muses, tilting his head to the side, oblivious to my apprehension. Focused only on the mechanics of the task at hand. "When we came up out of the tubes, we were already standing on them. They just weren't _live _yet. So that means, during the time when they're activated, it's the _change_ in the weight that sets them off—or they are remote detonated by the gamemakers if a Tribute fails to move."

I stare at the boy, still unsure. He sees my confusion and chews his fingernails, trying to decide how to better explain his point. "The idea is," he begins slowly, "we can't activate the mines and _then_ shovel dirt on top. The change would instantly trigger the sensitive internal sensors and blow us up! We have to put the dirt on top _first_, to conceal them, and_ then_ activate them. Do you see?" he asks anxiously, eyes wide.

I nod, eyes just as wide. "So how are you going to activate them?" I ask, molding my palms to my temples. They're sticky with sweat.

"Very carefully," the boy says, pressing his lips together in a firm line.

My mouth drops open, and I shake my head before snapping it shut again. "Well, okay then," I say with a shrug of acceptance. There's nothing else to do but get started and trust that this kid from District 3 knows what he's talking about. So I head over to the crate of supplies that contained the netting and pull out a sturdy trowel. I drop to my knees and begin digging, estimating the approximate diameter with my eyes.

The boy raises an eyebrow and ventures, "You going to tell the Careers there are tools in that crate?"

I look up and reply innocently, "I distinctly remember Cato saying, ' We're not going anywhere near you while you're working.' And you and I both know we can't force a Career to do anything he doesn't want to do." I smile pleasantly and return to the digging.

District 3 chokes holding back a chuckle, and I work to keep my smug grin from widening. "What?" I ask evenly, forcing my expression to remain flat. "I wouldn't want to put their lives in danger."

"No, we wouldn't want that," he agrees smoothly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

I make quick work of the hole, since it's so shallow. We make sure the bottom is smooth and then ease the metal disc down into it, leaving room on one edge for the boy to reach the triggering mechanism and work his magic. When we're sure the mine is settled and stable, I cover it with the displaced pile of dirt beside it. Then I stand back while he lays down next to it, flat on his belly, beads of sweat running down his forehead. I can see it dripping into his eyes, and I know the salt must sting, but touching him, even for the purpose of wiping his face in an effort to be helpful, is definitely out of the question. I don't dare approach or distract him in any way.

I hold my breath. It feels like ages, though it's probably only a matter of minutes. Finally, he sits back on his heels, shoots me a tense look, and very, very slowly shoves a small amount of dirt toward the mine to fill in the gap that remains. Then he stands and backs away hastily. We both freeze, and I feel like my chest is going to explode even if my body doesn't. It takes us a few seconds to realize—it's actually a success! I suck in the dry, dusty air and then exhale forcefully, enjoying the feel of it moving through my lungs like I never have before.

He looks at me with a broad grin on his pale face and asks with a deep sigh, "On to the next one?"

I shake my head in agreement and observe, "I guess we'll just have to be careful to avoid the areas that seem disturbed and hope any thieves will too busy looking for _us _to keep an eye on the ground under their feet."

We head back to the Cornucopia to retrieve some more mines, and I clap him on the back. I don't know how to express that I'm impressed, grateful. That he's a good ally, and if I have to be stuck in this situation, it could definitely be worse. That it's good not to feel as—alone—even if I can't tell him my real plan. But there doesn't seem to be a_ right_ way to say any of it. Any such sentiment just draws attention to the glaring reality that it's all circumstantial and temporary. That there is only _one _victor. No matter how beneficial an alliance is, you can't really be friends. Because they always become an enemy eventually, in one way or another. It's how the games are designed. And those are the moments the audience lives for.

So I don't say anything, although guilt consumes me. Sometimes knowing what to say isn't all that matters or makes an impact. Knowing what _not_ to say—what you can't say—makes one, too. And leaves marks behind.

So we each pick up another metal disc and proceed with the plan, deliberately scattering them in a seemingly random pattern around the supplies. The intricate work spends the rest of the daylight, and the fiery orange of sunset blazes on the horizon as we gently shove the last pile of dirt into place. When that's finished, I hurriedly load a burlap sack with tins of food, and we pick our way over the ground back to the Cornucopia before the darkness settles and makes it impossible—or less than preferable.

The Careers are all lounging around the mouth of the Cornucopia, nursing their bottles of water and acting generally exhausted from all the manual labor. I want to laugh at them, but I control myself. I just walk from one to the other, dropping tins of food into their laps and not expecting any thanks for it.

"I see you didn't blow yourself up today, Lover Boy," Clove sneers, examining the tin of food I've provided before prying it open.

"Well, there's always tomorrow," I dead pan sarcastically, leaning against the still-warm metal of the Cornucopia.

The Careers snicker in amused appreciation and dive into their meals, such as they are. I run a raw hand over my face. They_ would_ laugh at death humor. And at my expense, of course. It's sickening—and was entirely unintentional.

"Eat up," Cato says as he ravenously shovels in the food. "We'll head out when it's totally dark." He pauses, mouth full, and adds as an afterthought, "And everyone get two water bottles this time." Then he looks up at me with a grin and says, "You too, Lover Boy."

I nod, not even bothering to protest. Not this time. I just head back toward the booby-trapped supplies with the burlap sack to get all the water bottles needed, cheered by the realization that they've basically rendered themselves dependent upon us. _They'll just have to wait as long as it takes_, I think, and I pull the flashlight from my belt and begin sweeping it slowly over the smooth ground in the dim light. Very, very slowly.


	7. Chapter 7

The anthem has long since played, and there are no lights in the arena save ours tonight. It's strange to be surrounded by artificial darkness. Black like coal or burnt bread, the sky unbroken by the normal celestial configurations. The Careers don't bother to make a fire, because Cato intends to spend most of the night hunting Tributes, knowing we are the only ones bold enough to move through the arena at these hours. I guess they don't think District 3 might need one—or they don't care.

I'm somewhat comforted that we thought to leave the stack of sleeping bags inside the mouth of the Cornucopia instead of moving them with the rest of the supplies. At least he'll have that—since he's staying behind, again. Mostly because Cato doesn't want him tagging along. Physically-speaking, the boy's more of a liability than an asset, which is all Cato sees. Careers look for the obvious, surface-level benefits in their alliances, but not much deeper. And not necessarily mutual. They'll keep him around for awhile to manage and protect the supplies—and long enough to make sure the reactivated mines function properly.

But there's no way to know exactly how long the fragile dependence we constructed will last. I know _I'm_ only around because they still don't have what they want most. Katniss.

I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, my body tensely coiled. My sword lies next to me, and my hand rests on the cool earth beside it, fidgeting. I shine my flashlight ahead, watching Marvel and Cato leisurely finish their last tins, hoping they thought to set some aside for the trek so I don't have to venture back through the minefield again tonight. My water bottles are full and secure in my belt loops, and I have a few tins of food in my jacket, though I can't imagine eating them. My stomach constricts every time my eyes drift back to the woods. I worry about what we'll find—or what we won't.

If we find her, I have to distract them or draw them away—or fight them. I'm not optimistic about any of those options. But if we _don't_ find her, their patience with me will be drawn very thin, at best, which means I'll have fewer and fewer opportunities to subvert the Careers and act on her behalf. And for the life of me, I just don't know what to do next.

Clove stands restlessly to her feet, and I swing my flashlight around to catch her itchy fingers fumbling with her jacket, the place where her knives are kept. "Come on, Cato," she demands impatiently. "Let's get going. It's dark now. _Been _dark," she adds with heavy emphasis.

"Yah, alright," he says, standing to his feet and stretching.

The rest of us follow his lead with only a minor amount of grumbling—mostly under the breath, because no one wants to annoy those two. Even Marvel, strong and skilled as he is, doesn't cross Cato. We collect our weapons of choice, and Cato fumbles in his pocket for a match so District 4 can light her torch. When the flame is burning brightly, casting a mix of flickering orange light and shadows over our faces, he turns to me and says expectantly, "Where to tonight, Lover Boy?"

I exhale deeply. I expected this, though that didn't enable me to be any better prepared with an attractive, new strategy. Honestly, what I'm about to say seems like common sense, but I've got to sell it like it's more.

"Well," I say, stalling as my eyes scan the treeline, "we took the line on the far right of the wooded area last time and found there weren't any good places to hide or set up camp." I sweep the trees with my flashlight and continue thoughtfully, brow furrowed in concentration. "So even if she'd crossed through that terrain, I don't think she'd stay there. I'd suggest going straight ahead tonight. Directly into the woods. See if we come across anything different."

Cato's watching me closely, arms folded across his chest, and I rush to add, "I definitely think we've got to keep looking for a water source. She hasn't been forced out to the lake, so she must have found one out there. And if she's found one out there," I pause, my voice low, "she won't be far from it."

Clove nods vigorously and prods, her voice edgy, "Come on, Cato. It's as good a plan as any. I want to _move_."

He lifts his chin in agreement, and she grins malevolently. Marvel grabs his spear and lets out a loud whoop. Without waiting for further instruction or questioning, I head straight for the woods at an easy jog. Their excitement will drive them initially, but I know the pace won't last long, especially with Glimmer and District 4 just straggling along at the back of the pack.

The trees are scattered, much like the far side of the woods, but the ground remains flat, for which I am thankful. The descent down that steep slope was very difficult to navigate—and even harder on the return trip.

It's not long, maybe an hour, before everyone slows to a walk. There's not much to see in the dark, but with the more manageable pace, I'm able to point out changes—or disturbances—in the terrain. At first, they're mostly imagined. But after awhile, it really does begin to change noticeably. The trees are thicker, and there is more brush and growth under foot. At times I even have to use my sword to hack through branches, vines, bushes. The earth becomes softer, and I can feel my heels sink into its yielding nature rather than being harshly rebuffed by its firmness.

I stop for a second, rocking my boots heel-to-toe over the forgiving ground. Cato presses against my back and growls, "What?"

"Do you feel that?" I ask quietly, shining my flashlight on my feet.

"Feel what?" Marvel asks curiously, coming up on my other shoulder.

"The ground. How it's getting softer," I explain, sweeping the light at waist level now. "And see how the vegetation's getting thicker—," I add intently.

"So what," Glimmer retorts from the rear of the group, clearly bored.

"What's it mean, Lover Boy?" Cato sneers, the side of his face breaking into my peripheral vision.

"It means—there's water somewhere around here," I say, matter of fact, trying to keep my voice calm and even, though I'm clenching the hilt of my sword anxiously to my side.

I paid attention to the Capitol trainers when they gave tips on survival skills. Figured it would be useful—since I didn't actually have any. And how to find water had seemed an especially important and essential piece of information at the time. My attentiveness is paying off now—I just don't know what the pay off will be.

"Excellent," Cato says, and I can almost hear his lips curl. He smacks me roughly on the back, and the force of it knocks me forward. So I press onward, taking the not-so-subtle hint.

I can feel their palpable energy cut through the cold air and the silence. They don't have to say anything. It's in the heightened breath and heavy footfall. Cato and Clove begin to press past me, no longer relying on me to lead as they instinctively sense they are closing in on their prey. Cato aggressively slashes through the dark with his sword, not so much to ease the journey as to make sure nothing slows us down or gets in our way.

But we do slow down, eventually, because the air begins to feel thicker, somehow. It's harder to take full, satisfying breaths, though I'm not sure why.

Suddenly, Marvel cries out, "Smoke! I smell smoke!"

We all freeze, and Clove hisses, "Yes." The word sizzles through the pack, and they begin looking around excitedly, trying to determine the direction from which it comes.

"Do you see anything?" District 4 asks expectantly, holding her torch aloft and squinting in the dark.

"No," Cato answers in frustration, adjusting his strange glasses. "Everything just looks—brighter."

I stand still in the center of their chaos, uncertain and on edge. There's definitely a distinctive burning smell in the air. The charged feeling takes on substance now that I can qualify it with more than one sense. But it still feels, smells—different—somehow. My brow furrows in concern and hesitation. I slowly rotate my position. The pungent aroma doesn't seem to waft toward us from just one direction. No. In fact, it seems to be _rolling_ toward us, like a wave, ready to overwhelm and consume.

"Guys," I whisper nervously, the words caught in my suddenly-dry throat.

They don't answer, now absorbed in an argument over which way to go.

"Guys!" I yell more forcefully, backing out of the center of the pack. An unseen force compels me to move—and move away.

"What is it?" Cato growls angrily, eyes flaming and oblivious. "Where are you going?"

I sweep my flashlight frantically around woods and say earnestly, "I don't think it's a campfire."

"What?" Marvel asks, scratching his head in confusion. "I can _smell_ the smoke. We _all _can."

"I know, I know," I say, continuing to take small steps backwards, as my eyes flit from one face to the other. "But there's too much smoke. It's all around us. And it's getting hard to breathe. Haven't you noticed?"

They stop to look at one another and each takes a deep, focused breath. I can see uncertainty creep into their eyes.

My eyes begin to water, and I can actually see the smoke drifting around us now, eerie gray against the ominous black. It stings when I inhale and adrenaline begins to course through my muscles, my brain. "That's _not_ a contained fire," I plead with great difficulty, choking on the last word. "We've got to go. We've got to run. _It's coming_!"

Then I feel the radiating _heat_, and Glimmer screams as birds unexpectedly fly through the trees, furious wings batting at the air and our heads. There are feet stampeding past us, animals fleeing—and we are fleeing, too. Back in the direction we came. Trying to outrun the wall of smoke threatening to overtake us—and whatever feeds it.

We run like we have not run since the night we were on to the girl from District 8. We don't just smell smoke. We smell death. But this time—our own. So we run faster, harder.

Pain blazes through my legs and my chest and my lungs, and I fight against myself, struggling onward. We cannot stop for rest this time. There is no slowing down or falling behind. There is only living or dying. We all know it.

Then I feel my feet slamming onto hard earth again, and I'm encouraged, driven forward. And we keep running. I don't know how long we run. Until we no longer feel the heat and breathe the smoke. Until the air starts to smell and feel fresh and clear again. Only then do I allow my feet to lose some of their urgency.

When we finally stumble from the woods, the night is gone. The sun is bright in the sky, and we're exhausted, dragging ourselves over the open ground toward the Cornucopia. I can hardly feel my legs, though I feel every breath that scratches through my lungs. Not until I toss my body to the earth, not bothering to unroll a sleeping bag first, do I think to pull a water bottle from my belt and take a long, soothing drink. It flows coolly over my parched lips, and I care for nothing else. Not the tins of food still heavy in my pockets or the Careers sprawled about me on the ground, equally desperate and fatigued.

My body lies limp against the earth, and I keep my throbbing eyes closed, concentrating all my energy on breathing and sipping water, alternately and slowly, until the bottle lies empty in my hand, and I hear snores around me. Then sleep takes me.

x x x x

I am standing in the woods, surrounded by smoke so dense it's like a fog about me. I can't see anything through the blackness of night or cloud. Panic overwhelms me, and I want to run, but I don't know where to go. I spin helplessly, first one way, then another. My eyes burn and my lungs feel charred, and I want to scream, but I don't have the breath.

Finally, I see light, and I am relieved. But only momentarily. The light is rushing toward me, bowling through the woods, consuming everything in its path. Trees. Brush. Animals. Birds. I've waited too long. There is no escaping it, no outrunning it. It rages wildly and will not be satisfied until I succumb.

I hold my head in my hands and scream wordlessly, though I know it's useless. The heat is upon me, and I can feel it licking at my skin, every touch leaving a blister in its place.

I lift my head frantically and see a hand on my arm. A_ hand_!

_It's Katniss_.

She stands before me, eyes black and body ablaze with orange-red flame. _She is burning me_. I can't escape, but I wouldn't if I could.

"_Peeta, why didn't you come for me_?" she wails, every note of her cracking voice raw and etched with pain. "_Why_?"

"I didn't know. I didn't know you were there! I didn't know you needed me!" I plead desperately. I am burning, burning, but I stifle the screams and wrap her in my arms. I want to cry, but there are no tears. I cannot save her. It's too late. I cannot even save myself.

"I would have come. I would have," I groan helplessly into my blistering hands as she dissolves into ash. And I cannot breathe.

I wake with a start. Hyperventilating will do that. I roll painfully onto my side and choke into the ground. My lips coat with dirt, and my throat is still baked and dry. My eyes feel the same, which is good, otherwise I'd probably be crying. And I can't do that. I draw in ragged breaths, eyes squeezed shut, until I hear movement next to me.

I open my eyes and see boots, someone kneeling at my head. "I filled up your water bottle," District 3 whispers. I'm glad he's there. He doesn't know how glad. I keep hoping against my intuition, hoping that when we leave, he'll run. But he hasn't yet. And I'm both sad and grateful.

He puts a tentative hand beneath my shoulder. He's not strong enough to lift me, but the touch encourages me to pull myself into a sitting position. I wipe my sleeve over my gritty mouth and take the water, drinking deeply from the bottle, though my body slumps forward awkwardly over my folded legs. When it's emptied, I set it on the ground by my knee and hold my head in my hands, much like I did in the dream.

I can feel the boy's eyes on me, but there is nothing to say. We both know it. I can't tell him what I've seen, and he won't ask. "So you smell—smokey," he observes at last.

"I smell like I almost got roasted," I say, coughing harshly into my hands.

"Yah. Well, do you want to eat something?" he asks. I can see him holding out a tin, trying to entice me. "I already restocked the supplies. Brought enough for everyone."

I sigh heavily and look around the camp in a daze. The sun is high in the sky, and the Careers are still passed out where they fell. I run a hand over my head and accept the tin from the boy. He nods and backs away, settling himself against the Cornucopia with his knees pulled up to his chest. I still have full tins of food in my jacket, but I can save those for next time. Though I hate it, there's guaranteed to be a next time.

I eat the food, because I need it, but I have to force myself to swallow. It hurts, and my body wants to reject it. Then I force myself to stand and walk around, stretching my legs and working out the stiffness. But the pungent aroma of my jacket starts to get to me, and I can't take the building agitation any longer. The smell is painful. The memories are painful. And I want to wash it all away. So I stride toward the lake, taking a wide berth around the booby-trapped supplies, stripping the jacket from my body as I go.

The heat beats down on my shoulders relentlessly, and I kneel at the bank, plunging my hands into the water so that I can feel the sensation of coolness spreading over my skin, stealing the warmth away. When my mind is calm again, I pull the food and other supplies from the pockets and set them next to me. Then I slide the jacket into the water, watching it float, watching the sweat and dirt and smoke invisibly dissolve beneath its cleansing current.

When I pull the dripping jacket from the water, I feel a sense of short-lived relief. I twist the sopping mass in my hands, wringing out as much excess water as I'm able. Then I spread it upon the bank and let the hot afternoon sun do its work. It continues on its steady, predictable trajectory through the sky, persistently measuring the passage of time which, at any other time in my life, I might have welcomed. Here, it brings only foreboding.

So I turn the jacket over and decide to return to the Cornucopia. It will dry no more quickly under my watchful eye. I can't speed the sun any more than I can slow it down.

I trudge across the open ground, hand shading my eyes, and note that the Careers are all awake, now, and emptying the tins District 3 bravely procured earlier. Clove is back at target practice, an exercise that she seems to never tire of. I don't know if she enjoys it or if it's a sort of coping mechanism. Or if, after hours and hours of practice, it's simply become a compulsion she can't deny.

I pick another tin from the diminishing pile and lower myself to the ground next to the boy's preferred spot against the Cornucopia. We all eat in silence, and I try not to flinch with every _thwack_, _thwack_, _thwack_ of Clove's blades.

After a few more rounds, she stands up, downs the last of the water from her bottle, and tosses it to the ground at Cato's feet. He narrows his eyes at her, but in her agitation, I can tell she doesn't care in the slightest. She's practically hopping from foot to foot when she says, words bursting forth, "I don't want to wait till it's dark tonight."

"We always go when it's dark. There are reasons for that," Cato mutters, disgruntled, not lifting his eyes from his food.

"I_ know_ that," she spits, frustrated, pacing around the other Careers, who ignore her. "But we didn't get anyone yesterday. And that's a problem."

"Why?" Glimmer asks carelessly, turning a tin over in her hands, trying to decide if she wants it or not. She decides not and tosses it to District 4.

"Because we have to find the other Tributes eventually. I'd like that to happen _before_ we run out of supplies. _And_ before the gamemakers start getting—creative," she says fiercely, arms crossed over her chest. "You know they will," she adds, her voice low. Her words hang in the air, filling our little camp like the heavy smoke that still hangs in our clothes.

Cato pauses, and his face hardens before shoveling another bite into his mouth.

Marvel leans back on his hands and asks with a yawn, "But why the need to head out early?"

"Considering what we almost ran straight into last night, I guess I'd just like to see where I'm going for once," she says, her tone biting. "The glasses only help so much."

"Fine," Cato snaps, nostrils flaring. "We'll go when everyone's done eating. Good enough?" he challenges with a sideways glance at her, eyes flashing.

"Fine," she retorts and whips another knife out of her jacket, flinging it across the camp with intensity.

I stand to my feet and quickly offer, "I'll fill up the water bottles."

Without waiting for a reply, I collect the empty containers littering the ground and shove them into the burlap sack. I don't need to sit around listening to them argue. Things are tense enough as it is without them disagreeing on strategy—and who's in charge of it.

But who knows, I shrug to myself, maybe they'll get tired of it and kill one another while I'm gone. That brings a small smile, and I cheer myself with the thought as I walk back toward the lake, laden bag slapping against my back.

I find that my jacket is dry, and just in time. The sun is moving lower in the sky, and it will be cool soon. So I quickly slip my arms into the sleeves and return the tins of food still lying on the bank to their respective pockets. Then I fill the bottles with water and set them on the bank, squeezing a few drops of iodine into each. I watch the colored liquid dissipate in the water before carefully replacing the lids. Then I reload the bag and walk slowly back to the Cornucopia, where the Careers are all preparing themselves for another hunt.

By the time we're ready, evening is near, and I'd guess we have about an hour of light to semi-darkness to start with. I hope that will be good enough for Clove. At this point, it will have to be.

My eyes scan the treeline yet again, and I consider our options. Without waiting to be asked, I speak up, "We may as well take the far left side of the woods this time." I direct their eyes to the entry point with my finger. "The side near the lake."

When we enter the woods, I immediately see that the trees and growth look more plush and vibrant. I don't know if this is due solely to the proximity to the lake or if there are ancillary water sources connecting it to this part of the arena. It would make sense for the lake to be fed from somewhere, rather than being a free-standing body of water—it just didn't occur to me until now.

We press through the heavier growth single-file, and I lead the way as the light fades around us, forced to pick out a path more deliberately than in the other areas of the wood, which slows our pace considerably. I've just shoved through a large bush hanging over my chosen course, when I see a pool of water not too far away shimmering in the low light. Sitting on the edge of the pool, weary eyes closed in half-sleep, is _Katniss_.

Every muscle in my body tenses. It seems like I've spent every minute of my time here warring within myself—desperately wanting with all of my being to see her, yet also hoping intensely that I never will. _And there she is_. All I can think to do is yell it loudly.


	8. Chapter 8

Her head snaps up at the sound of my warning cry, and her eyes fly open, brief bewilderment flashing across her face before she is up without a second thought. As though, even in rest, her body was poised for movement—a hunter, through and through. She throws herself into the pool, water splashing into the air as her legs churn furiously through the wake. Then she darts into the brush while we are still clambering through the thickness of growth above.

The Careers, led by Cato and Clove, plunge after her. My hesitation causes me to fall behind, and I struggle to keep up, frantically shoving through bushes, ducking under trees, desperate to be there when they finally corner her. Desperate to somehow avoid a repeat of the night we came upon the girl from District 8.

My worst fears are coming to fruition faster than I can fight them off, and we are all shouting and a fierce flurry of feet. But also, coughing and choking and constricting chests, held back by our smoke-ravaged lungs. Still, we close in on her, and the Careers press hard, like vicious dogs onto a scent. Finally, they surround a great tree, circling it like the savage pack they are. I can almost hear the gnashing of teeth through the heaving as we all catch our breaths. We are wrecked, but they don't care. The end is inevitable, and they grin like they are already celebrating her death.

I lean forward, hands upon my knees, and stare intently up into the heights of the tree, searching for her. I find her, and I see a mixture of emotions flitting across her normally smooth face—a grimace of pain, a flash of fear, a sense of resignation. A smile of _smugness_? Then she calls out, "How's everything with you?"

Her confident nonchalance surprises them, and Clove shoots a perturbed glance at Cato. He answers arrogantly, "Well enough. Yourself?" He saunters around the tree brandishing his sword.

"It's been a bit warm for my taste," she answers casually, settling comfortably into the crook in the tree. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

_She's taunting them_. _But why_?

I look anxiously at their faces and register the fire there. Cato's eyes narrow, and he cracks his neck before replying, "Think I will."

I force air in and out of my body. It's instinctual and automatic, but I focus on it, because I can't think about him dragging Katniss screaming and fighting out of that tree. I can't watch him do it. So I pull Clove's knife out of my belt, holding it ready, ready to plunge into Cato's back if I need to—and my eyes fall to the blade. I'm overwhelmed with the sudden desire to polish it, to make it like the knife has never known and will never know blood again.

"Here, take this, Cato," says Glimmer, interrupting my compulsive focus. I glance at her. She's holding out the bow and sheath of arrows.

My heart sinks, and I draw my attention back to the knife, working at the blade with my shirt. Polishing deliberately so that my hands won't tremble, pressing so hard my hand cramps. Maybe they'll assume I'm just enjoying this moment of triumph and relishing in my methodical preparations. Cleaning my blade like a cold, intimidating killer. _But I am not_.

_I am not looking at Katniss_.

"No," Cato growls, shoving the bow aside as he reaches up into the tree and searches for a footing. "I'll do better with my sword."

I swallow with difficulty, a lump rising in my throat. I have to stay calm. I have to _think_. I have to be—calculating.

Cato grunts loudly as he heaves himself into the tree, and I allow myself a quick glance to survey the situation. He's inexperienced and heavy—and surprised that he can't easily climb on brute strength alone. Katniss has nimbly scurried higher into the tree and, by comparison, Cato's efforts look more and more clumsy. He grumbles to himself as he reaches awkwardly for another branch. As soon as he shifts, using it to support his weight, a loud crack splits the air. Then Cato falls to the ground, landing with deafening thud.

He rolls onto his side, sucking air, then pushes himself to his feet as curses pour from his crude mouth. "Glimmer, you try," he finally coughs angrily.

She nods and slides the sheath of arrows around to her back before hauling herself up into the tree. She's lighter and more agile than Cato, so she manages to make it much higher than he did. But she stops nervously when we all hear the branches start to crack beneath her feet, too. Glimmer throws an anxious look toward Katniss and an uncertain look down at Cato—knowing what will surely happen if she tries to move higher, _not_ knowing what will happen if she gives up. She settles for the middle ground and prepares to fight from her precarious perch, gritting her teeth in determination as she pulls an arrow from the sheath, attempting to fit it to the bow like the novice she is.

An arrow flies into the air but lodges in the tree, and I hear Glimmer swear as Katniss plucks it from the trunk and waves it over her head, grinning. Teasing. I exhale quickly and shake my head. Glimmer grunts in frustration and carefully works her way back down the tree, knowing it's useless to climb any further and equally useless to waste all her arrows shooting from that position, regardless of Cato's wrath.

She jumps down to the ground and brushes at her thighs impatiently. "This is ridiculous. There's got to be a way to get her," she pouts, clutching the ineffective bow to her.

"Well, _clearly_ we can't climb up after her," District 4 spits, gesturing toward the offending tree.

"I can give it a try with my spear," Marvel offers, readying his stance and peering through the fading light for a good angle.

"That's stupid," Cato sneers, folding his arms across his chest and drumming his fingers against his arm in agitation. "You'll just lose the spear."

"We could light it up," says Marvel, eyes wickedly bright and crazed, already extending a hand to Cato for the matches. "That'll do the trick. Either force her down or burn her up."

"That's just as stupid as your first idea," coughs Clove with a frown, rolling her eyes. "You want to risk another fire running wild? I'm not looking to die in one tonight, thank you."

"Well, we've got to do _something_. It's almost dark!" Marvel retorts, getting down in Clove's face.

This planning session is going downhill fast, and I know I've got to reign things back in before one of them agrees the next truly idiotic idea, which, stupid as it may be, could actually end up harming—or _killing_—Katniss. I've got to buy time. Again. There is never enough of it. And the price seems to rise every time.

Ignoring the tightness in my chest and stomach, I yell, my voice hard, "Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning."

I know they will hear my harshness as an echo of their own frustration. And though they hate it, they all begrudgingly nod their assent, knowing I'm right. They'll be better able to evaluate the situation in the full light of day. She_ will_ have to come down eventually. And meanwhile, we have enough supplies nearby to wait her out—for as long as it takes.

Glimmer tosses herself to the ground, and the other Careers follow her lead. District 4 extends her torch to Cato, and he holds a match to it, providing light in the steadily creeping darkness. I busy myself collecting sticks for a fire, not so much for the light as for the warmth, since our sleeping bags are all back at the Cornucopia.

By the time we manage to get a decent blaze going, blackness surrounds us and everyone has accepted that we are tucked in for the night. We sit in silence, broken only by strains of the anthem filling the arena. You can't hear anything else when it plays. But no one tries to speak. No one wants to. It doesn't matter, though. I can read the thoughts on their glaring faces in the flickering light, each plotting the next move as the dark sky—empty, yet again, of any kills—renews the fire inside them.

After an hour or so of brooding silence, interrupted only by the low crackling when I intermittently poke the fire, Cato says gruffly, "We may as well try to sleep. Glimmer, you sit up and keep the fire going."

"Why me?" she whines, frowning into the orange light.

"Because _you _always seem to get more sleep than the rest of us. So it shouldn't be any trouble for you stay up," he replies coldly, rolling this way and that on the ground in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position. He finally gives up and just lies flat on the ground, legs and arms splayed, while Glimmer grumbles and lowers herself to a seat at the base of the tree. She snatches the stick I've been using as a poker from my hand, and I know it's pointless to protest.

Slowly, sadly, I lie down, too. Flat on my back, I stare into the dark night, eyes straining for one more glimpse of Katniss. I didn't want this day to come, but I knew it would. And now I have to plot _my_ next move as craftily and cleverly—and _more_ so—than the Careers.

I cannot draw them away this time. Misdirection is not an option, here. My fingers run across the knife at my waist and fall across my hip to the sword on the ground. It feels cold and heavy under my light touch, though I have not even lifted it yet. I can't try to kill them all, here in the night. Even in sleep, I wouldn't succeed. I could not be that careful, that skilled. Someone would hear something. Someone would cry out. I've been over this scenario in my mind over and over before, and it always ends the same way—with me dying—and Katniss dying. So it's a scenario that can never have more than my fleeting attention.

The leaves and branches rustle and sway above me. I can hear them, though I can't see them. I can't see anything beyond the dome of our fire-glow. I can't see _her_. I have no way of knowing what her plan is, no way of communicating with her that I'm on her side. Have _always_ been on her side.

I try to think of what Haymitch would want me to do, but we never got this far in our planning. Stall and misdirect. That's all he advised, and that's all I've done for days. But it's not going to work anymore, and I don't know what he would say now. Maybe he didn't think I'd last this long.

I decide that everything depends on Katniss. What _she_ decides. I can't make a decision until she makes the first move, which means I have to wait. And it's a hard realization. _Very_ hard. Exasperating. I feel like I am waiting for death, just like the Careers, but not for one I can revel in. No, I dread the morning.

So I keep my eyes open, fighting off sleep. I hold more than imaginary nightmares at bay this time. I fight off_ real_ ones, too, struggling against the passing hours. I listen to Glimmer shifting uncomfortably on the cool earth and see the sparks fly when she agitates the fire, each prod coming farther and farther apart. Then, in the early hours, there is silence. And then, though my weary mind and body strains against it, there is sleep.

x x x x

Cato's lips curl menacingly over his teeth, and he rubs his hands together before grabbing the tree. He pulls himself up easily and finds a foothold. I want to tell him it's useless to try again, but he wouldn't listen to me. His face is murderous, so I don't question him. I slide my knife back into my belt and stand back to watch, wait. He climbs and climbs. But this time, the branches hold his weight.

I'm anxious and my palms sweat. The branches are supposed to break. He is supposed to fall. Any second now. Yet—they hold. I cannot reach him or pull him down. And I have no confidence I could hit him with the knife if I tried. I look around helplessly, but the Careers are cheering, oblivious to my distress.

Cato climbs higher and higher, and Katniss has nowhere to go. No further retreat or escape. She is in the uppermost branches, and her eyes are wild. She pulls a knife from her bag and throws it at Cato, but he ducks, and a terrifying howl of laughter fills the woods. He lunges toward her and grabs her ankle, pulling her from the safety of her perch. She clings to the branch above her, but I can see her grip loosening. Tears stream down her face, and her mouth contorts in a grimace. She can't hold on. _She can't_. And I am frantic.

He starts to descend, dragging her down with his weight so that her fingers begin to peel away from the tree, one by one. She cries out in anguish, and the sound rips through me. Then she lets go. She is flailing. And falling. And screaming.

_And screaming_.

The screaming is wrenching and horrible, and I bolt upright, breathing heavily, eyes blinking to adjust to the pink haze of the early morning, when a cutting pain stings through my leg. I cry out and jump to my feet. There is screaming, screaming, screaming—.

And madness.

A large nest lies at Glimmer's feet, and a buzzing swarm already covers her jerking body. It's grotesque and violent, and I want to vomit, but the urge for self-preservation takes over. _We have to run_.

"To the lake! To the lake!" I shout as another sting pierces my chest.

So I run, plunging through the trees, falling through the bushes, tripping over protruding roots and undergrowth. There are feet behind me and buzzing in my ears, and I don't stop running. I am stung again. And again. My feet begin to falter as I fly from the woods toward the lake, but still I don't stop. I run directly into the water until I am submerged up to my neck, turning just in time to see Marvel, Cato, and Clove splashing into the water behind me. Another sting streaks through my jaw, targeted just below my ear, and I know I will have to go beneath the surface to survive. With a deep, clawing breath I pull myself down. And I wait.

I look through the glass ceiling above me, the colors of the sunrise blurred and distorted, and I wait, hovering in weightless suspension, my feet just barely trailing along the sand beneath me. I wait until my chest burns, and spots float lazily before me, and I am in danger of embracing blackness. But I cannot let go. Though it would be so very easy. A desire—hot and urgent as the desire for air—streams through my fractured mind. Dragging me back. _Katniss is there_.

And Glimmer. And District 4. And the nest.

_I have to help Katniss_. _I have to make sure she's gone_. Before—.

I burst through the glass, and it shatters. I flounder toward the bank, everything strangely fuzzy and numb. Everything so dizzy. I don't know if I fight for oxygen or consciousness. But the ground sways under me, and I drag my fingernails across the pain in my neck, feeling a pulsing bulge on my skin. I fall to my hands and knees and crawl along the bank, searching for a weapon. I cannot find my sword. I don't know where or when I lost it. But my hand comes across Marvel's spear, flung to the ground in a panic, and I clutch it tightly, forcing my feet beneath me.

I stagger forward over the rolling ground and into the woods. There are stumbling feet behind me, but I keep moving, throwing myself through glistening bushes and branches that seem to grasp at me.

Then a cannon fires. And another. They tear through my throbbing head, and I run as a man running for his life. _I am_.

Through the branches I see a person lingering over a body, and I raise my spear, ready to throw as I crash through the last trees. The person turns, holding the bow and arrows—and it's Katniss. I am overcome with relief and confusion. _She's alive_. _She's still here_. She's crazy.

"What are you still doing here?" I hiss frantically, water dripping from my hair down my neck.

She stares at me like she doesn't understand what I'm saying. Like she can't hear me or see me at all.

"Are you mad?" I ask. My own words sound strange in my ears, and she sways before me, but never rises. I turn the spear and prod at her with the blunt end, desperately trying to jolt her back to the urgent present. "Get up! Get up!" I command. Everything is shifting, humming, but I don't stop. I poke her again.

She finally stands but still doesn't flee. I hear the heavy pounding behind me. It's so loud. _She has to leave_. So I push her, hard, uprooting her. "Run!" I scream, blood and feet pounding in my ears. "Run!"

There is crashing behind me, and Cato cuts wildly through the brush. A greenish pustule swells beneath one of his fierce eyes. He is enraged. _He heard me_. My treachery, my motives—my allegiance—are unquestionably plain. There is no distracting or delaying, now. Only fighting. I have to make sure she gets away, even if I die doing it.

I pull the knife swiftly from my belt and fling it at him, but he is a moving target, and it flies wide. So I lift the spear to my shoulder, though it suddenly feels like the ground will sink beneath me. He lunges toward me with his sword, and I clumsily bat it away, swaying on unsteady feet. I thrust back with the spear, but miss badly. Then the earth finally tips, and I fall into a tree. Cato slashes at me with his sword, tearing through my upper thigh. Pain shoots through my body, and I see golden light flash all around me.

I hang onto the tree, bark rough against my cheek, waiting for him to finish me. But he is doubled-over, like the weight of the sword suddenly pulls him down. With every last ounce of strength and concentration in me, I raise the spear again and drive it toward him, letting it fly into the air. My head lolls back as pain cuts through every part of me from the effort, and I see through heavy eyes that Cato falls—whether from my spear or from the venom coursing through us both, I don't know.

Then I realize the tree I'm holding is one large nest. Bees are crawling all over me, and I scream. I throw myself away from it, slapping at my arms, but my leg collapses, and the ground rises to meet me. I fall onto the remnant of the night's campfire, where the sticks and small logs still radiate with heat. Burning sears my chest, melting my jacket and my skin. I have lost all breath and roll onto my back, swatting at the bees and the fire. It is blazing on my chest. I can see it. _I can see it_. But I can't put it out.

I stare wildly up into the trees, desperate for rain, until the sky boils red and hot blood washes over me. I choke and cry and roll back onto my stomach, shoving my knees beneath me. Then I half run, half crawl, dragging my leg behind me. There is red blood everywhere. And finally, the black ground swallows me whole.

_**Author's Note: This chapter contains some dialogue from the original Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins retains complete creative credit for those excerpts. I included the overlapping portions for the sole purpose of retaining continuity within the story.**_


	9. Chapter 9

The nightmares I've experienced so far are nothing compared to the ones that assault my mind and senses now. I have no grasp on time or reality, consciousness or unconsciousness, slipping with terrible ease from one to the other. All my fears are enhanced and projected into visions from which there is no escape or relief. I see Katniss die over and over and over again, as if I haven't envisioned it enough. Sometimes from afar, so that the pain of being able to do absolutely _nothing_ to stop it drives into me and twists like a dagger. Sometimes, it's right in front of me, and I hold her seizing body as the life drains from her, red proof of its departure all over me.

Creatures I cannot name attack me. Tributes turn on me. Sometimes the colors are so bright, I can't stand it. Sometimes the sky, so red when I fell into the hole, turns black. There is no color at all, just the _sounds_. And I hate that even more.

Then the venom reaches into the deepest parts of my brain and extracts and manipulates the memories—and fears—associated with my family, my home. I watch my brothers die. I see my father eviscerated as the bakery explodes in a ball of fire. My mother is there, too. They may not miss me, need me, but in the deepest parts of me, I miss _them_. Family is something. Home is something. However dreadful it is—what is there, when there is nothing else left?

When the waves of terror finally begin to subside, I am spent. My weary eyes open, and I dizzily try to get a sense of where I am and how much time has passed. It's not dark, but the I can tell the light is fading. It's soft in the trees, and the ground is damp and lush beneath my cheek. That means I didn't run toward to Cornucopia. I'm thankful for that. If I had, I'd probably be dead by now. Beyond that, the only reason they haven't hunted me down yet is that they were probably passed out and disoriented, too. We all got stung. How many times, I don't remember. But the pain still lingers.

Why do I still feel _so much_ pain? Shouldn't that have passed away with the hallucinations?

A trembling hand runs over my neck, and I cry out when my fingers brush over the sensitive bulge beneath my ear. I bite down on my lip, hard. _No noise_. Nothing to give away my position. My hand flutters over my chest, feeling the long trail of singed material and burned flesh. My leg is throbbing, too, and I run my hand down to my left leg, grimacing from even the slight pressure of my touch. I drag my hand away and see that it's covered in slick blood.

Bits and pieces come back to me. The vague recollection of a fight. To protect Katniss. From Cato. He _cut _me. And it's bad.

I don't know if Cato is injured or not, but if he's able, he'll find me. Soon. I know that much. So I can't stay here, out in the open, exposed. I can't waste any time moving, though all I want is to lay in this spot, sinking back into the ground, never moving again. My body is wasted, and I don't want to think, let alone drag myself through the woods. But I don't have a choice. So I roll onto my side, pulling my good leg and my arms up under me. A low groan breaks through my gritted teeth as I push myself up and look around in a better attempt to get my bearings.

The ground and growth tell me I'm near water, but I have to avoid the lake and the pool where we discovered Katniss. I can't return to any place they already know and would think to look. But darkness is falling over the arena quickly and, in this condition, I won't be able to move effectively at night, so I have to make a decision of some kind. I have to pick a direction. Simple as that.

They have _all_ the advantages, here. The weapons. Those glasses. The supplies. The food and water. And depending on the locations of their injuries and stings, they may be fully recovered by now—and hardly encumbered at all.

_Think_. _Think_, I order myself, blinking my eyes and forcing the mind-breaking pain into the recesses of it.

I _need _the water. My two bottles are full now—I take a deep drink at the thought—but it will go fast, even if I force myself to ration it. And my body, already so weak, won't last without it. That's what I need to find, now, while I can, because I won't be able to get far searching for it later. And I'm already close. I can feel it in the earth beneath my hands. There must be _something_. Something that connects the pools and the lake nearby. A different water source.

So I move forward, though the blinding pain makes me want to pass out again. I crawl and drag and hop from tree to tree. It is torturous and slow and exhausting, but finally, my feet sink deep into a muddy bank, and I stumble into a stream. Sweet relief floods over me like the cool water flowing around my hands and knees.

_Perfect_, I exhale as the last remnant of day hides itself behind the trees. I can move along the stream without leaving an unmistakable trail of blood, footprints, and crushed undergrowth behind me—signs even the Careers couldn't miss. And, wherever I decide to conceal myself, I'll have easy access to water, which I'll desperately need.

I take another long drink, feeling it run through me. My stomach tightens, and I realize just how fragile a state I'm in. Lunging forward through the stream in awkward lurches, I hunt for a place to take cover and rest. Water plants snatch at my feet, and I stumble over uneven, protruding stones. At one point, I start to fall and try to catch myself on a large boulder, but my leg collapses, and I cannot hold myself up. I splash face-first into the water and sputter for air. When I sit up and reorient myself with a cautious sweep of my flashlight, I see a long smear of blood where I made a futile attempt to hang onto the rock as I fell.

My eyes lose focus, and I sit in the middle of the stream, dazed and broken, unsure if I can even stand, unsure if I can make it any further without food and rest. My body begins to shake, and I shake my head harder, trying to throw it off. My breathing is shallow as I stand, legs quivering, and, in a fleeting moment of clarity, realize I can't leave the red stain there. I try to wipe it off with my hand, but that just smears it over the surface even more. Frantic frustration rises in me, and I splash it with water. But my efforts are useless, and I lean my forehead against the coolness of the stone, struggling to hang onto my tenuous connection to the here and now.

I sink into the bank on the other side of the boulder and give in. I am done for the night. I weakly pull a mess of leaves and mud over my legs, hoping that will provide a little cover and insulation for now. I'll have to do a better job of camouflaging myself tomorrow—assuming I make it through the night.

The anthem blares through the arena, and I'm surrounded by the cover of darkness. No faces splash across the sky tonight. Hopefully, it will stay that way. Hopefully, the Careers are almost as weak as I am and won't be able to carry out a full-fledged manhunt for awhile. Hopefully.

I pull a tin of food from my jacket and force myself to eat it. I eat very slowly, not because I'm savoring it, but because I'm playing a trick on my body, trying to draw out the meal. Creating the illusion of abundance when there is none. Satisfying the gnawing hunger little by little. It's a game I have played with myself many times over stale scraps of bread. No morsel goes to waste. No crumb is denied its full and lasting effect. Then I finish off the first water bottle and allow my arm to drop limply to my side.

The now-familiar night chill steals over the arena, and I am hazily grateful that the mud-pack on my legs seems to be sealing in some of the body heat. That, or I'm delusional and the cold just numbs the pain and dulls my senses. I don't know which. My upper body, though, is still exposed, and it feels like the cold penetrates to my bones. I haven't been this cold since the winter my family slept in the bakery every night, huddled on the floor next to the oven, trying to absorb every remaining bit of warmth from the day's fiery work. I still remember pressing my face against the clay until the last remnant of heat dissipated.

I pull my arms from my sleeves and hug them to my bare body inside the jacket. If someone comes upon me in the night, there's no way I'll be able to jump up and flee. But I probably wouldn't be able to anyway. It's clear running won't be a part of my strategy going forward. At least this way I'm warm. Enough. My sole focus is simply survival. Mostly because I want to witness every other Tribute's face fall away from the sky until there are only two left—_and then I'll let go_.

My head rolls uncomfortably against the hard rock, but I trust exhaustion will compensate for discomfort. Sleep will find me regardless. I won't fight it tonight. I don't think I can see anything worse than what I have already seen—real or imagined—though I don't put it past the gamemakers to try. But I just don't care. My own body feels like a stranger to me, and right now—I'm tired.

Tonight, the only guardian of darkness who takes me is sleep.

x x x x

I wake while the sky is still a mixture of night and day, not quite one or the other. There are colors in the sky, but they're the pale and translucent of early morning. Not like the bolder colors of dusk and sunset. That gives it away. I am relieved to wake—and relieved to have had the first dreamless sleep since I entered the arena. Perhaps my body did not even have the energy to accost me with visions. It definitely felt that way. Even now, I feel weak. _Too_ weak.

The sound of trickling of water in the stream beckons to me, and I run my tongue over cracked lips, pulling out my other water bottle. I take small, lingering sips. I know I will have to move soon, find a better, more concealed position. But this has to come first. The energy required to do that will be spent more quickly than I can possibly replenish it, so I must be careful, make wise choices. I may only get to make them once.

I lower the empty bottle into the stream and watch the water gurgle into it, then I set it beside me, resting it against my mud-covered legs while it undergoes the iodine cleansing. My stomach grumbles uncomfortably, and I consider whether I can afford to break into my small stash of remaining food tins. My hand wanders through my pockets, verifying my count of supplies. _Only two left_. I sigh dejectedly and slowly withdraw my hand, resigned. I will have to be hungry awhile longer—if I can manage it.

Without further reason to delay, I scrape the mudpack from the lower half of my body and, with painstaking slowness, pull myself from ditch I've become sucked into. I drag myself along the bank, stifling groans that threaten to erupt from deep within as I search for an ideal place to hide—but I don't get far. It's difficult to maneuver through the tangled mess of damp sludge and plants, and getting over the slick stones and rocks isn't easy, either. I can feel myself getting light-headed, and my breathing grows so shallow, I'm forced to stop and rest. I don't know if it's dehydration, lack of food, blood loss—or a combination of all three. Probably all three. But there's really only _one_ I can do anything about.

I lean back against the bank and drink more water, staring up into the open, clear sky above. If I block out everything else, I could be anywhere. I could be _home_. But suddenly, the loud sound of a cannon cuts through the thin air. My eyes snap open, pulling me harshly back to reality. I don't know who died, and I won't know for hours. But I know I don't want to be next. So I have to focus.

The place where I lie is as good a place as any, at this point. I can't risk wearying myself even further by continuing to hunt for a better location. There may not be one. I'll just have to rely on an earlier strategy—misdirection. In this case, that looks like camouflage.

I work my body into a comfortable position on the bank, surrounded by rocks and plants, then I carefully and methodically begin to cover my body with overlapping layers of mud, leaves, and plants. Whatever I can find. Whatever will make me blend in. When I'm finished, I will as good as melt into the landscape. So though it makes me anxious, I take my time, wanting it to be done well, and I find myself actually enjoying the process. Using my hands again. Executing a creative vision. It reminds me of painting or decorating—something I was surprised to love. Something I happen to be very, _very_ good at. But instead of a plank of wood or cake, I am remaking myself.

Which is something I've struggled with all my life anyway. Finding the balance between being who I am and what others want me to be. And how to do that in a way that is somehow true to both.

When I was a kid, I was constantly entertaining myself, which really meant, staying out of everyone's way. I wasn't old enough to be much help in the bakery and felt early on that I was both an inconvenience and a nuisance. My mother and father tirelessly committed almost every daylight hour, and often more, to the meager living that supported our family. So I filled all those hours on my own, elsewhere. That's when I discovered my version of painting.

It was really all an accident. I was making a mess, as boys sometimes do. Smashing berries and acorns and bugs. I was fascinated by the colors and what they looked like when I smeared them together. It wasn't long before I discovered how exciting it could be to manipulate those textures and colors, making varying shades and hues, combining them to create something entirely new, then moving them over the ground or a stone or a discarded piece of wood into an image. Sometimes, just an abstract collection of my favorite new colors. Testing them out. Other times, an image that somehow looked like an actual picture, a representation of an object, of something _real_.

My brothers ignored me. They were busy in the bakery and, to them, I was doing nothing more significant or interesting than playing in the dirt. My mother ignored me, too. But not my father.

I remember the day he discovered one of my paintings. He came up behind me unexpectedly, and I tried to hide it, afraid he would think it a waste of time. But he didn't. He gently asked to see it, asked me to explain what it was and how I'd made my paints. He was caught up in my enthusiasm and in the complex realism I managed to draw out of such crude materials. From that day on, he brought me things. A handful of berries, sneaked from the bakery. A cupful of fine wood shavings, saved from the evening's cuttings. A tin of flower petals, collected on the way home from a delivery. Fresh green grasses from the first days of spring.

I felt like I'd discovered a new part of myself. Like I'd come alive in a meaningful way. A way that allowed me to express myself when there were so many ways I couldn't. Because I couldn't say what I wanted to my brothers or my mother. Certainly couldn't say what I wanted to Katniss. But I _could_ say those things in colors. And, eventually, as I grew, that gave me more and more confidence with words, too.

But then my mother found them. Some of my paintings.

She was shocked, angry, that I would waste valuable time on something so frivolous and that I would jeopardize the well-being of the family by using fruits and supplies from the bakery. I sheepishly admitted I had never thought of it that way. So she put a stop to my painting for a long time. Not so much by taking anything away. No. It was by what she _gave _me instead.

She suddenly found jobs for me to do in the bakery alongside my brothers. Jobs that kept me working before dawn and long after nightfall and many hours in between. Jobs that left no room for the frivolous. Jobs that she never thought I was very good at, though I tried.

But I learned to love the bakery, in spite of her hard intentions and harder expectations. I could create there, too, bringing life from the ordinary and unremarkable. The bakery gave me so many unexpected things. The tasks gave me a new and useful skill. The hours gave me more time with my father. The work gave me my strength. The fruits of my labors gave me something to share, finally, with Katniss. And—the bakery gave me a new way to paint.

My father would not go against my mother. He never brought me anything else to use for painting. But one day, he did call me into the back of the bakery where I found a broad, floury table covered with tubs of icing and tubes of coloring—and a cake. He simply patted me on the back and said, _Let's see what you can do_. From that time on, I decorated all of the cakes ordered in District 12, and my mother couldn't utter a word against it.

As I apply the mud, leaves, and grit to my neck and face, I smile faintly, recalling the gift my father—and my mother—gave me. And how it will save me for just a little while, here.

I force myself to drink more water, because the sun is rising hot in the sky. Then I lay down on the bank, enjoying the coolness provided by the mud and proximity to the stream. But relief is short-lived, because I am faint with hunger and exertion. My skin feels clammy beneath the many layers of concealment, and I feel myself edging toward something deep, a place between sleep and unconsciousness.

Against my better judgment, I pull one of the two remaining tins from my pocket and, with as little disturbance to my camouflage as possible, open it. The bits of dried beef provide a small resurgence of energy and clear-headiness, but it, too, is short-lived and does little to soothe the persistent hunger pains. Thankfully, I know from experience that after the worst of the cramping, the pain fades into virtual nothingness. I have one tin left, and then I will look forward to that—the nothingness.

I shove the empty one deep into the mud and stare at the bright sky, dazed eyes half closed, half open. It's then that I hear and feel an explosion rock the arena.

The earth around me trembles, and every inch of my body absorbs a part of the blast. I don't know from where it comes—or why—but my growing inability to process a coherent stream of thought combined with my ever-present fear for Katniss makes me feel more than desperate. I feel almost—crazed.

I cannot find her. I cannot go to her. I can do _nothing_ more to help her. I am stuck in a pit, literally, hoping against all the odds—the odds that have _never_ been in our favor—that what I have already done for her is enough.

I feel myself drifting toward blackness, then I hear another cannon echo through the arena, and I am plunged into its depths.

x x x x

There has been an explosion, and everyone knows what it means, whether you're Seam or not. An explosion of that magnitude reaches throughout the entire District. You can't_ not_ know about it. Whether you felt or heard it for yourself—or were told about it by a passerby falling apart in front of you, just like the crumbling mines deep below the earth.

_I_ know what it means. I immediately think of the black coal dust heavy in the air, heavy in the lungs, heavy on bodies that probably won't be found. I think of Katniss and how I can't imagine_ her_ crumbling like that. Ever. She's too strong.

And I'm right. She_ doesn't_ fall apart. Not on the outside. Not when they tell her about her father. Or when she returns to school and sits in the same room that will never, ever feel the same again. Or when her mother becomes like a ghost, and I worry so much that I can't sleep, because she might become one, too.

But she doesn't. And though I am glad, I worry that the inside might become the harder of the two. I worry that she will never feel light. Or free. Or peaceful. That the sweet music that made me first take notice of her will never pass over her lips again. And I want that for her. So much that I can taste it.

But all I can do is to give her a taste of something tangible, something she can hold in her hands. So I take the beating and the insults, and I give her bread, because her father is gone—and her mother may as well be—and she desperately needs_ it_. And I hope that someday, I can give her the rest as well.

I hope that maybe, just maybe, she'll make the choice her mother didn't. Maybe someday—_she'll _choose the baker.

x x x x

The Capitol anthem breaks into my delirium, where I relive another version of a recurring dream which, though sad and bittersweet, I still prefer to whatever darker visions I might encounter the next time the blackness arrests me. The dream will never end the way I always hoped it would, now. But thinking of her, _seeing _her alive there—instead of the vicious images of death that have plagued and terrorized me—makes being here a little more bearable.

My eyes struggle to adjust to the night, and I stare into it, waiting. Dreading what must come next.

A face floats across the sky. And it's a face I know. It's the boy from District 3.

A lump rises in my constricting throat, and I feel cold and pain everywhere. I hardly knew him, not even his name. I didn't bother to ask. Without meaning to, I treated him the same way Haymitch treats his Tributes, held at arm's length, so that it's easier—if you could ever call it that—to watch them die. It's the way Cato treated me, though for other, crueler reasons, I'm sure. Deep down, I just didn't want to know. Still, I knew enough. I know he didn't deserve this.

I wanted him to die, but I _didn't _want him to die. _How can these conflicting realities coexist_? My chest aches with the wretchedness of it all.

Another face rises in the sky. The boy from District 10. I don't know the boy, and it's hard to feel the deep sadness that I know I should. Instead, all I feel is wrenching guilt. Guilt that I cannot summon the will to mourn him. And guilt that I am so overwhelmingly relieved it's not _her_, because she is still alive and fighting. I will endure seeing _any_ face in the night sky, if it is not Katniss. She is too strong to crumble, even if she doesn't know it. _I know it_. Because I've _seen_ it.

Then I am crushed by it all and fall back into the darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

A figure emerges from the treeline, and I squint against the blazing orange sun. It's one of the Tributes. A girl. And I can tell from the way she holds her body that it takes every last ounce of energy and resolve to make these final steps. She is hunched over, stumbling under the weight of her own body. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, glancing around furtively in hopes the Careers haven't noticed yet.

I shade my brow with one hand, and she shuffles closer, heading directly for the supplies. The _booby-trapped_ supplies. I cringe and consider what to do. Warn her? Go after her myself? Just wait and see what happens? I don't know, and I feel despicable for not knowing.

But it's then—in the midst of my self-misery—that I recognize the dark hair, the braid, the olive-toned skin. _It's Katniss_. What is she doing? Why is she out in the open? Why is she _here_?

I risk everything and scream at her to back away, that it's not worth it. To run and hide—and win. But she cannot hear me. She approaches steadily—as steadily as she can. Like an alcoholic or morphling looking for a fix, she's unable to see or process anything else until that intense physical craving is satisfied. And I can tell by her gaunt face and hollow eyes exactly what it is that she needs so desperately. I've seen it before. _She is starving_.

I stand and scream, again and again. I begin walking toward her, adamant, but she continues on, equally determined. Hand already outstretched toward the sack of shiny red apples I thought to hang at the top of our pyramid, for protection, should the gamemakers decide to introduce any curious—and hungry—animals into the arena. She focuses on the sweet, mouth-watering fruit like she sees nothing else, like she can already taste them, and it carries her forward.

So I run. If she will not or cannot listen, I will _make _her stop.

But before I can reach her, she steps on one of the mines and the reaction is instantaneous. The force of the blast blows me back in a great cloud of dust and slams my body to the ground. The wind is knocked from deep inside me, and my ears are ringing, ringing. I roll onto my hands and knees, confused and dizzy. And in denial. I fall onto my face and push myself up again. The ground rolls beneath me, but I crawl over the hills without any thought of stopping.

there are no words for the rest. No color to describe what so much dark, blood red mixed with dirt brown looks like. No hand strong enough to wrench me from the depths of grief in which I drown. I am swallowed up. No wail loud enough, visceral enough to empty me of the pain that threatens to split me open. I am already broken.

I want to explode. I am waiting for it. _Why not me_? _Why not me instead_?

_Kill me now_, I beg.

x x x x

_Kill me now_, I murmur faintly as the boom of a cannon crashes through the chains tethering me to another nightmare. My eyes flutter at the sound. My head aches, and the light is too bright. But it marks the time in the sky and shows me I am well into the second half of the day already. It's as clear as the day around me, but I can't make any sense of it. I've never slept that long in my life. Ever. Of course, I've never been well on the way to dying a slow death, either.

_Kill me now_.

I wonder if the girl from District 8 thought that, in the deepest recesses of her mind, as she lay on the ground waiting, hoping, for the pain to end. Was it really a merciful death that I gave her? I will not be so lucky. I've hidden myself well, and the Careers are unlikely to find me. But then, I know they wouldn't be the least bit merciful. Just finishing what they started. Too bad they won't have the chance.

Rather than languish here, body and sanity wasting away, I could drag myself from the bank, wash myself clean of my earthen camouflage, and be completely exposed for the finding—and taking. I could ignore the final tin of food in my pocket and refuse to take another sip of water. _I could_. I could make the end come just a little faster.

But I won't.

My eyes close as a second cannon tears through the air. My ears ring from the sound, and the birds are silent. The only sound is the rushing water so close to me I could touch it. I am almost too weak to remove the water bottle from my side, but I bring it to my mouth and let the drops dribble onto my tongue.

I will not rush to embrace death yet. Not until I have a reason to do so. Right now, I still have one reason _not_ to, _one_ thing holding me back from those beckoning arms.

Katniss has to be out there, somewhere. And I have to know. I have to prove the nightmares false. For deep down, I feel like the worst sort of traitor for fearfully dreaming of her death. As though the existence of the images, even in my mind, are an utter betrayal of who she is—and who I am. As though they negate the confidence I have in her in my dwindling waking moments.

The cannons still ring in my ears, haunting me. Teasing me. Reminding me there are two more ghostly visages to see in the night. But not Katniss. _Not her_.

I pull the last tin from my pocket and rest it on my stomach. Then I struggle to pry it open. In my half-crazed, fumbling weakness, the act takes minutes. Maybe longer. I really don't know. But finally I manage to remove the lid enough to reach its contents with the tips of my fingers. Slowly, in and out of the blackness, I bring bits and morsels to my mouth. I don't know what it is, and I hardly chew it or taste it. I just allow it to slide down my throat so that I can know, for myself, that I didn't give up too soon. That I tried to the very end.

And then it is finished, and soon, I will remember what it feels like to really starve.

x x x x

The anthem tickles my ears. It sounds more muted than before, which is nice. It was always so very loud. Garishly so. You couldn't hide from it or ignore it. Covering your ears or hiding beneath layers of caked mud wouldn't do it. But it's softer tonight, and I am thankful. My head is pounding, and I don't think I could take the noise. It feels like one misplaced high note would cause it to shatter.

Even my eyelids ache as I force them open, waiting for the images painted onto the black canvas of sky above. I weakly drag my limp arm from my side and test my water bottles. I can still vaguely feel the liquid weight in one of them, and I bring it to my lips. Precious drops run down the side of my face, and I reposition it to avoid the waste, because I don't think I have the energy to unscrew the lid and fill it up. Maybe later.

A smirking face I know too well lights the night. It's Marvel. District 1 will mourn tonight. I just issue a deep exhale of relief.

Then another face. A girl. _But not Katniss_. Another sigh of relief. And then, sadness. She is young. _Too_ young. The tiny face of the girl from District 11. I remember thinking she wouldn't survive long, but she proved me and many others wrong on that count. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. But the inevitability of something makes it no less regrettable. And my body throbs from locations too numerous to pinpoint.

The fuzzy thought does occur to me that I'm not as cold as I would expect to be. The chilled air flowing over me should be seeping into me right now, working tenacious tendrils through my layers of muddy insulation. But it's not. In a moment of understanding, I realize something must be offsetting the effects of the cold. Probably a fever. My internal temperature is likely the only thing balancing out the external. Funny how the degenerating ailments ravaging me are actually prolonging my life.

But that seems to be my lot, always trying to make the best of conflicts, always trying to find a way to unify the incongruous. It's exhausting, and I fade into the weariness of it.

x x x x

There's an uncomfortable weight on my chest. It's hard to breathe, and my face feels tight. My eyelids are like heavy blankets that I shove off with great difficulty. Through the darkness I see a strange glint of light reflecting off two large, inhuman black eyes directly above me. The creature leans forward and hisses into my face.

"I finally found you, Lover Boy. I knew I would, if I hunted long enough." Clove. She digs her knee into my chest, and I hear her slide a knife from her belt.

"You were pretty good with that knife of mine. But," she pauses dramatically and lingers close to my ear before muttering menacingly, "I'm better."

She holds the knife in front of my face. It's so black I can't see the edges of the blade, but I don't have to. It's sharp, and it's deadly, and she won't hesitate. This is just the prelude to the show.

"I'm going to kill you. You know that, don't you?" she asks with a sneer, enjoying this. Not expecting an answer. "But I'm going to do it slowly. For all the ways you hurt us."

She drives the knife into my arm. Pain sears through me, and I groan in agony. "That's for all the supplies we lost."

She plunges the blade deep into my other arm, and I choke on the air that escapes me. "That's for Glimmer," she twists the knife sadistically, "and every tracker-jacker sting."

She wraps a hand around my neck and squeezes, pressing her fingers into the excruciating bulge there. "Oh, I'm sorry. You have one, too. They hurt, don't they?" Clove observes sarcastically, knowingly. And not sorry at all.

Clove slides the blade out of my flesh and sits back, considering. "Which leg is the good one?" she asks harshly. "Oh well, no matter."

She sinks the slicing metal into my right thigh. The good one. "That's for cutting Cato," she hisses wickedly, leaning forward, inches from my face. I can feel her fiery breath on me.

I feel everything slipping away, and she slaps me, hard. "Oh, no. Not yet, Lover Boy. We're not done."

The blade penetrates my chest just below the clavicle, and she leaves it there. My lungs are screaming, but nothing comes out. Every part of me is screaming. "That's for Marvel. If we'd caught your little girlfriend when we should have, he'd still be here." She leans into the knife and presses it down. I bite on my lip until I taste blood in my mouth. "Did you know she's the one who did it? Well, I've got news for you," Clove growls, "_I got her_."

"No," I moan in protest, the pain in my chest suddenly radiating intensely, hot and bright. "No."

"Oh, yes. I did," she corrects me, finally pulling the blade from my shoulder. "Do you want to hear _how_ I did it before I finish you off?" She doesn't wait for an answer, as if I'd condescend to give her one. "Listen up, and I'll tell you," she breathes, fueled by her lust for vengeance.

Clove viciously plunges the knife deep into my stomach, and blackness and pain blur the edges of everything. She crawls along my prostrate body and leans into me, too close. Intimately close. And she hisses in my ear, "I did it like this."

x x x x

I wake to twisting pain in my abdomen and intense pressure in my chest. The only thing that lets me know the nightmare itself wasn't real is the too-bright sunlight burning my eyes—and Clove's absence.

_It wasn't real_, I tell myself, because I need the reminder.

I pull my water bottle to my mouth in an attempt at distraction. Washing away the lingering tang of blood I'm sure I can actually taste. I suck weakly until the bottle is empty. And then there is no more relief for my body or mind. It dissipates as soon as the last droplet rolls across my tongue.

Now I can't stop thinking of Katniss, especially because I know I must be nearing the end. Thinking of her songbird voice echoing through the school. Thinking of her in the Capitol, stunning and strong and not knowing it. Thinking of her, sinking into the ground in District 12, hungry and desperate. Thinking of how, even in my last moments here in the arena, I can somehow give her more of myself. Because I can't do anything else _but_ that.

The Capitol, the sponsors, they all loved the star-crossed lovers routine. Of course, it helped that I actually had—_have_—genuine feelings to draw from. I don't have to act that part, faking it for the cameras like some of the other Tributes to conjure up audience empathy. It was and is clear, I think, to everyone watching, how much this situation pains me, how much this _costs. _And now, exactly how much I am willing to give.

In this temporary lucid wakefulness, I can give one last plea on her behalf, from my own lips. With my "good mouth." _My_ way. They can't manipulate this. And it will be easy, really. The people were inclined to love her, because I love her. And they were inclined to bet on her, because she was the best anyway. She didn't need my help for that. But one last tragic profession, now—for them to hear—that might help one more time.

Then Clove or Cato or the gamemakers can kill me, and it won't matter. I have nothing else to give, except everything. And it's worth it. _Absolutely worth it_. I'm dying anyway. Whether I do it slowly or they kill me quickly, doesn't matter. I can feel it in my constricting throat, my heavy chest, my delirious head, and the disturbing, pervasive numbness in my body.

So I open my chapped lips, an involuntary moan escaping them, dry air flowing over my swollen tongue, and croak, "Haymitch?"

_Louder_. I have to be louder. For the cameras to hear me.

"Haymitch, I did everything I could for her. I kept them away as long as I was able. I stalled, like we decided I would. I gave her the chance to get deep into the woods, where she's at home, where she could disappear. And she has, and I'm so glad. I don't mind dying, if I know she's going to live because of it. So keep _your_ end of the bargain. _You_ help her, because I can't protect her anymore. Help her. I love her, and I know she can win. I know it."

I say these things slowly, deliberately, emphatically. Because it takes all my breath. And they will eat it up—the drama. They won't be able to pull their desensitized, glamorous eyes away. It will tug at their cold, callous hearts, so I've chosen my words carefully—as carefully as I can with my thoughts so jumbled and hazy.

And because I also want to remind Haymitch, in whatever fog he's in, that he has to stay in the game this time. One of us has to. Clearly that's not going to be me.

Every word of my appeal is completely true. So I don't have to think too hard. It just comes. And someday, when she wins, maybe she'll see this footage and know how much she was cared for. The most difficult thing to accept, now, is that I won't get to tell her all the things I wanted to in person. I'll never see her again. Not even one last time. I probably won't even last long enough to be assured of her victory, as I've desperately hoped. But that's how this game goes, and the odds, as I well know, were never in my favor.

I run my tongue over my lower lip and breathe hoarsely, "She's going to hunt them down, because that's what she does. And no one should _ever_ underestimate her. Ever."

And then, for her alone, I whisper as darkness takes over, "Katniss, I tried—I tried to still be me."

x x x x

The anthem blares into my unconsciousness, reverberating in my skull. And I am disappointed, because I was honestly hoping I wouldn't have to hear it again. And so loud this time. So harsh. Finally the last grating strains play, though an echo seems to linger in my head, and I welcome the comparative silence, lulled and consoled by the peaceful trickling of the stream. My eyes close, and my body sinks into the bank—when the unexpected sound of trumpets blast through the night. I'm startled and confused. I vaguely remember from Hunger Games past that this means something, but I can't think what. Those memories elude me.

A voice booms through the arena, and I try to make sense of the announcement. There has been a change to the rules. _Two_ Tributes may now win the Hunger Games—as long as they are from the same district.

The meaning blooms in my fragile mind, and the significance of the words pierces me. _What tragic irony_, I think wryly. Just when I'm about to die. I'd bet there's not a single dry eye in the Capitol right now. And the districts? They are reminded, in their drab, sparsely furnished homes, that the Capitol can do whatever it wants. Hope is just a carrot they dangle in front of us without ever intending to let us have a taste. What I _can_ taste—is very bitter, indeed.

x x x x

I hear my name through the haze. It's faint. Distant.

I hear it again, a little louder.

I recognize the voice. Of course I do. It's _her_ voice. It's intoxicating. And if this is a dream, I don't want to wake up. Real or not, her voice could never sound any different. I would know it anywhere, even in the deepest, darkest fog.

Then I hear her passing by me. Her footfall is light. If she weren't calling my name, I wouldn't even know she was here. She's that subtle, that stealthy. That means she _wants_ me to hear her.

_She's searching for me_, I realize.

Hope—the hope the Capitol tries to suppress, tries to _kill_—rises light in my heavy chest. I grasp at it bravely with all the strength I can muster.

"You here to finish me off, sweetheart?" I croak softly, a weak smile breaking over my face beneath the mask. I'm still not sure she's real. Maybe she's just a vision—_my_ beautiful vision—finally welcoming me into death.

The effort of speaking drains me, and I breathe shallowly, trying to catch up again. I want to taste the forbidden carrot.

"Peeta," she repeats in a whisper, nearby. "Where are you?"

Did she even hear me?_ Is _this another dream? I don't trust my mind or my senses anymore, and it's cruel to drag on uncertainly for so long.

But then I hear her calling me again, closer. "Peeta?" She walks right next to me, and I have a chance. To speak. _To know_. It's what I've been waiting for.

I want to say, _I've been dying to see you_. That would be true _and_ charming. Or, _I love you_, which would be true and, hopefully, endearing. Or _any_ of the other things I've been building up the courage to express—and finally can. But all I can manage to say is, "Well, don't step on me."

My eyes open. The violent red which seems to constantly fill my sight, waking and sleeping, is replaced as she appears above me, the orange sun glowing radiant behind her. She's other-worldly. She_ is_ the "girl on fire." I don't feel my body anymore and don't need to. Just feeling utter relief and peace is enough. She's here and she's real._ I know it_. Without a doubt.

_She's alive_. That's all I wanted. To see her one more time and know that for sure. That makes it all worth it. Every horrific, nightmarish moment. Now everything falls into place. All my anxieties fade away, and if my next breath is my last, if I never say anything else—I'll be content.

_**Author's Note: I chose to end my story here, because the rest of the account can be found in The Hunger Games from Katniss' point of view. While it would have been interesting for fans—and for me!—to hear Peeta's inner dialogue during the events that are still to come, I felt it would require me to use an unreasonable portion of the original work in order to do that. I hope that you all enjoyed the part of the story I **_**did****_ retell—I certainly enjoyed writing it! _**


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